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The FBI recorded almost four hun-
dred bombings in Mississippi from
1964 to 1968, virtually all related
to the civil rights movement, and
almost all Involving black churches
or black homes.

I

n 1967 in Greenville, Mississippi,
i<nown Kian member Sam Cayhall is
accused of bombing the law offices of
Jewish civil rights activist Marvin Kramer,
killing Kramer's two sons. Cayhall 's first
trial, with an all-white jury and a Klan
rally outside the courthouse, ends in a
hung jury; the retrial six months later has
the same outcome.

Twelve years later an ambitious dis-
trict attorney in Greenville reopens the
case. Much has changed since 1967, and
this time, with a jury of eight whites and
four blacks, Cayhall is convicted. He is
transferred to the state penitentiary at
Parchman to await execution on death
row.

In 1990, in the huge Chicago law
firm of Kravitz &< Bane, a young lawyer
named Adam Hall asks to work on the
Cayhall case, which the firm has handled

(continued on back Hap)

Y1A15^

THE CHAMBER

Also by John Grisham

A TIME TO KILL

THE FIRM

THE PELICAN BRIEF

THE CLIENT

DOUBLE DA Y
New York London Toronto Sydney Auckland

Published by Doubleday

a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036

Doubleday and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin

are trademarks of Doubleday, a division of

Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Book design by Paul Randall Mize

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-PuUication Data

Grisham, John.

The chamber / John Grisham. — 1st ed.

p. cm.

I. Title.

PS3557.R5355C47 1994

813'.54— dc20 94-11764

ISBN 0-385-42472-8

ISBN 0-385-47439-3 (large print)

ISBN 0-385-47440-7 (limited edition)

Copyright © 1994 by John Grisham

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

June 1994

First Edition

13579 10 8642

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I was a lawyer once, and represented people charged with all sorts of
crimes. Fortunately, I never had a cHent convicted of capital murder and
sentenced to death. I never had to go to death row, never had to do the
things the lawyers do in this story.

Since I despise research, I did what I normally do when writing a
novel. I found lawyers with expertise, and I befriended them. I called
them at all hours and picked their brains. And it is here that I thank
them.

Leonard Vincent has been the attorney for the Mississippi Department
of Corrections for many years, and he opened his office to me. He
helped me with the law, showed me his files, took me to death row, and
toured me around the vast state penitentiary known simply as Parchman.
He told me many stories that somehow found their way into this one.
Leonard and I are still struggHng with the moral perplexities of the death
penalty, and I suspect we always will. Thanks also to his staff, and to the
guards and personnel at Parchman.

Jim Craig is a man of great compassion and a fine lawyer. As the
Executive Director of the Mississippi Capital Defense Resource Center,
he's the official attorney for most of the inmates on death row. He
deftly steered me through the impenetrable maze of postconviction
appeals and habeas corpus warfare. The inevitable mistakes are mine, not
his.

I went to law school with Tom Freeland and Guy Gillespie, and I
thank them for their ready assistance. Marc Smirnoff is a friend and the

VI ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

editor of The Oxford American, and, as usual, worked on the manuscript
before I sent it to New York.

Thanks also to Robert Warren and William Ballard for their help.
And, as always, a very special thanks to my best friend, Renee, who still
reads each chapter over my shoulder.

THE CHAMBER

ONE

THE DECISION to bomb the office of the radical Jew lawyer
was reached with relative ease. Only three people were involved
in the process. The first was the man with the money. The
second was a local operative who knew the territory. And the third was
a young patriot and zealot with a talent for explosives and an astonishing
knack for disappearing without a trail. After the bombing, he fled the
country and hid in Northern Ireland for six years.

The lawyer's name was Marvin Kramer, a fourth-generation Missis-
sippi Jew whose family had prospered as merchants in the Delta. He lived
in an antebellum home in Greenville, a river town with a small but
strong Jewish community, a pleasant place with a history of little racial
discord. He practiced law because commerce bored him. Like most Jews
of German descent, his family had assimilated nicely into the culture of
the Deep South, and viewed themselves as nothing but typical Southern-
ers who happened to have a different religion. Anti-Semitism rarely
surfaced. For the most part, they blended with the rest of established
society and went about their business.

Marvin was different. His father sent him up North to Brandeis in the
late fifties. He spent four years there, then three years in law school at
Columbia, and when he returned to Greenville in 1964 the civil rights
movement had center stage in Mississippi. Marvin got in the thick of it.
Less than a month after opening his little law office, he was arrested
along with two of his Brandeis classmates for attempting to register black
voters. His father was furious. His family was embarrassed, but Marvin
couldn't have cared less. He received his first death threat at the age of

I JOHNGRISHAM

trwenty-five, and started carrying a gun. He bought a pistol for his wife, a
Memphis girl, and instructed their black maid to keep one in her purse.
The Kramers had twin two-year-old sons.

The first civil rights lawsuit filed in 1965 by the law offices of Marvin
B. Kramer and Associates (there were no associates yet) alleged a multi-
tude of discriminatory voting practices by local officials. It made head-
lines around the state, and Marvin got his picture in the papers. He also
got his name on a Klan Hst of Jews to harass. Here was a radical Jew
lawyer vv^ith a beard and a bleeding heart, educated by Jews up North
and now marching with and representing Negroes in the Mississippi
Delta. It would not be tolerated.

Later, there were rumors of Lawyer Kramer using his own money to
post bail for Freedom Pdders and civil rights workers. He filed lawsuits
attacking w^hites-only facilities. He paid for the reconstruction of a black
church bombed by the Klan. He was actually seen welcoming Negroes
into his home. He made speeches before Jewish groups up North and
urged them to get involved in the struggle. He wrote sweeping letters to
newspapers, few of which were printed. Lawyer Kramer was marching
bravely toward his doom.

The presence of a nighttime guard patrolling benignly around the
flower beds prevented an attack upon the Kramer home. Marvin had
been paying the guard for two years. He was a former cop and he was
heavily armed, and the Kramers let it be known to aU of GreenviUe that
they were protected by an expert marksman. Of course, the Klan knew
about the guard, and the Klan knew to leave him alone. Thus, the
decision was made to bomb Marvin Kramer's office, and not his home.

The actual planning of the operation took very Httle time, and this
was principally because so few people were involved in it. The man with
the money, a flamboyant redneck prophet named Jeremiah Dogan, was
at the time the Imperial Wizard for the Klan in Mississippi. His prede-
cessor had been loaded off to prison, and Jerry Dogan was having a
wonderful time orchestrating the bombings. He was not stupid. In fact,
the FBI later admitted Dogan was quite effective as a terrorist because he
delegated the dirty work to small, autonomous groups of hit men who
worked completely independent of one another. The FBI had become
expert at infiltrating the Klan with informants, and Dogan trusted no
one but family and a handful of accomplices. He owned the largest used
car lot in Meridian, Mississippi, and had made plenty of money on all
sorts of shady deals. He sometimes preached in rural churches.

The second member of the team was a Klansman by the name of Sam
Cayhall from Clanton, Mississippi, in Ford County, three hours north of
Meridian and an hour south of Memphis. Cayhall was known to the

THE CHAMBER 3

FBI, but his connection to Dogan was not. The FBI considered him to
be harmless because he lived in an area of the state with almost no Klan
activity. A few crosses had been burned in Ford County recently, but no
bombings, no killings. The FBI knew that Cayhall's father had been a
Klansman, but on the whole the family appeared to be rather passive.
Dogan's recruitment of Sam Cayhall was a brilliant move.

The bombing of Kramer's office began with a phone call on the night
of April 17, 1967. Suspecting, with good reason, that his phones were
tapped, Jeremiah Dogan waited until midnight and drove to a pay phone
at a gas station south of Meridian. He also suspected he was being
followed by the FBI, and he was correct. They watched him, but they
had no idea where the call was going.

Sam Cayhall listened quietly on the other end, asked a question or
two, then hung up. He returned to his bed, and told his wife nothing.
She knew better than to ask. The next morning he left the house early
and drove into the town of Clanton. He ate his daily breakfast at The
Coffee Shop, then placed a call on a pay phone inside the Ford County
Courthouse.

Two days later, on April 20, Cayhall left Clanton at dusk and drove
two hours to Cleveland, Mississippi, a Delta coUege town an hour from
Greenville. He waited for forty minutes in the parking lot of a busy
shopping center, but saw no sign of a green Pontiac. He ate fried
chicken in a cheap diner, then drove to Greenville to scout the law
offices of Marvin B. Kramer and Associates. Cayhall had spent a day in
Greenville two weeks earlier, and knew the city fairly well. He found
Kramer's office, then drove by his stately home, then found the syna-
gogue again. Dogan said the synagogue might be next, but first they
needed to hit the Jew lawyer. By eleven, Cayhall was back in Cleveland,
and the green Pontiac was parked not at the shopping center but at a
truck stop on Highway 61, a secondary site. He found the ignition key
under the driver's floor mat, and took the car for a drive through the
rich farm fields of the Delta. He turned onto a farm road and opened
the trunk. In a cardboard box covered with newspapers, he found fifteen
sticks of dynamite, three blasting caps, and a fuse. He drove into town
and waited in an all-night cafe.

At precisely 2 a.m., the third member of the team walked into the
crowded truck stop and sat across from Sam Cayhall. His name was
RoUie Wedge, a young man of no more than twenty-two, but a trusted
veteran of the civil rights war. He said he was from Louisiana, now lived
somewhere in the mountains where no one could find him, and though
he never boasted, he had told Sam Cayhall several times that he fully
expected to be killed in the struggle for white supremacy. His father was

4 JOHNGRISHAM

a Klansman and a demolition contractor, and from him Rollie had
learned how to use explosives.

Sam knew little about RoUie Wedge, and didn't believe much of what
he said. He never asked Dogan where he found the kid.

They sipped coffee and made small talk for half an hour. CayhaU's cup
shook occasionally from the jitters, but Rollie's was calm and steady. His
eyes never bHnked. They had done this together several times now, and
CayhaU marveled at the coolness of one so young. He had reported to
Jeremiah Dogan that the kid never got excited, not even when they
neared their targets and he handled the dynamite.

Wedge's car was a rental from the Memphis airport. He retrieved a
small bag from the backseat, locked the car, and left it at the truck stop.
The green Pontiac with Cayhall behind the wheel left Cleveland and
headed south on Highway 61. It was almost 3 a.m., and there was no
traffic. A few miles south of the village of Shaw, CayhaU turned onto a
dark, gravel road and stopped. RoUie instructed him to stay in the car
while he inspected the explosives. Sam did as he was told. Rollie took
his bag with him to the trunk where he inventoried the dynamite, the
blasting caps, and the fuse. He left his bag in the trunk, closed it, and told
Sam to head to Greenville.

They drove by Kramer's office for the first time around 4 a.m. The
street was deserted, and dark, and Rollie said something to the effect that
this would be their easiest job yet.

"Too bad we can't bomb his house," RoUie said softly as they drove
by the Kramer home.

"Yeah. Too bad," Sam said nervously. "But he's got a guard, you
know."

"Yeah, I know. But the guard would be easy."

"Yeah, I guess. But he's got kids in there, you know."

"KiU 'em whUe they're young," RoUie said. "Little Jew bastards grow
up to be big Jew bastards."

CayhaU parked the car in an aUey behind Kramer's office. He turned
off the ignition, and both men quietly opened the trunk, removed the
box and the bag, and slid along a row of hedges leading to the rear door.

Sam CayhaU jimmied the rear door of the office and they were inside
within seconds. Two weeks earlier, Sam had presented himself to the
receptionist under the ruse of asking for directions, then asked to use the
rest room. In the main haUway, between the rest room and what ap-
peared to be Kramer's office, was a narrow closet fiUed "with stacks of old
fUes and other legal rubbish.

"Stay by the door and watch the aUey," Wedge whispered cooUy, and

THECHAMBER 5

Sam did exactly as he was told. He preferred to serve as the watchman
and avoid handling the explosives.

RoUie quickly sat the box on the floor in the closet, and wired the
dynamite. It was a delicate exercise, and Sam's heart raced each time as
he waited. His back was always to the explosives, just in case something
went wrong.

They were in the office less than five minutes. Then they were back in
the alley strolling nonchalantly to the green Pontiac. They were becom-
ing invincible. It was all so easy. They had bombed a real estate office in
Jackson because the realtor had sold a house to a black couple. A Jewish
realtor. They had bombed a small newspaper office because the editor
had uttered something neutral on segregation. They had demolished a
Jackson synagogue, the largest in the state.

They drove through the alley in the darkness, and as the green Pontiac
entered a side street its headlights came on.

In each of the prior bombings. Wedge had used a fifteen-minute fuse,
one simply lit with a match, very similar to a firecracker. And as part of
the exercise, the team of bombers enjoyed cruising with the windows
down at a point always on the outskirts of town just as the explosion
ripped through the target. They had heard and felt each of the prior hits,
at a nice distance, as they made their leisurely getaways.

But tonight would be different. Sam made a wrong turn somewhere,
and suddenly they were stopped at a railroad crossing staring at flashing
lights as a freighter cHcked by in front of them. A rather long freight
train. Sam checked his watch more than once. Rollie said nothing. The
train passed, and Sam took another wrong turn. They were near the
river, with a bridge in the distance, and the street was Hned with run-
down houses. Sam checked his watch again. The ground would shake in
less than five ininutes, and he preferred to be easing into the darkness of
a lonely highway when that happened. Rollie fidgeted once as if he was
becoming irritated with his driver, but he said nothing.

Another turn, another new street. Greenville was not that big a city,
and if he kept turning Sam figured he could work his way back to a
familiar street. The next wrong turn proved to be the last. Sam hit the
brakes as soon as he realized he had turned the wrong way on a one-way
street. And when he hit the brakes, the engine quit. He yanked the
gearshift into park, and turned the ignition. The engine turned per-
fectly, but it just wouldn't start. Then, the smell of gasoline.

"Dammit!" Sam said through clenched teeth. "Dammit!"

RoUie sat low in his seat and stared through the window.

"Dammit! It's flooded!" He turned the key again, same result.

"Don't run the battery down," Rollie said slowly, calmly.

6 JOHNGRISHAM

Sam was near panic. Though he was lost, he was reasonably sure they
were not far from downtown. He breathed deeply, and studied the
street. He glanced at his watch. There w^ere no other cars in sight. All
was quiet. It was the perfect setting for a bomb blast. He could see the
fuse burning along the wooden jfloor. He could feel the jarring of the
ground. He could hear the roar of ripping wood and sheetrock, brick
and glass. Hell, Sam thought as he tried to calm himself, we might get
hit with debris.

"You'd think Dogan would send a decent car," he mumbled to him-
self. Rollie did not respond, just kept his gaze on something outside his
window.

At least fifteen minutes had passed since they had left Kramer's office,
and it "was time for the fireworks. Sam wiped rows of sweat from his
forehead, and once again tried the ignition. Mercifully, the engine
started. He grinned at Rollie, who seemed completely indifferent. He
backed the car a few feet, then sped away. The first street looked famil-
iar, and two blocks later they were on Main Street. "What kind of fuse
did you use?" Sam finally asked, as they turned onto Highway 82, less
than ten blocks from Kramer's office.

Rollie shrugged as if it was his business and Sam shouldn't ask. They
slowed as they passed a parked police car, then gained speed on the edge
of town. Within minutes, Greenville was behind them.

"What kind of fuse did you use?" Sam asked again with an edge to his
voice.

"I tried something new," Rollie answered without looking.

"What?"

"You wouldn't understand," RoUie said, and Sam did a slow burn.

"A timing device?" he asked a fe"w miles down the road.

"Something like that."

THEY DROVE to Cleveland in complete silence. For a few miles, as
the lights of Greenville slowly disappeared across the flat land, Sam half-
expected to see a fireball or hear a distant rumble. Nothing happened.
Wedge even managed to catch a Uttle nap.

The truck stop cafe was crowded when they arrived. As always, Rollie
eased from his seat and closed the passenger door. "Until we meet
again," he said with a smile through the open window, then walked to
his rental car. Sam watched him swagger away, and marveled once more
at the coolness of Rollie Wedge.

It was by now a few minutes after five-thirty, and a hint of orange was
peeking through the darkness to the east. Sam puUed the green Pontiac
onto Highway 61, and headed south.

THE CHAMBER

THE HORROR of the Kramer bombing actually began about the time
RoUie Wedge and Sam Cayhall parted ways in Cleveland. It started with
the alarm clock on a nightstand not far from Ruth Kramer's pillow.
When it erupted at five-thirty, the usual hour, Ruth knew instantly that
she was a very sick woman. She had a slight fever, a vicious pain in her
temples, and she was quite nauseous. Marvin helped her to the bathroom
not far away where she stayed for thirty minutes. A nasty flu bug had
been circulating through Greenville for a month, and had now found its
way into the Kramer home.

The maid woke the twins, Josh and John, now five years old, at six-
thirty, and quickly had them bathed, dressed, and fed. Marvin thought it
best to take them to nursery school as planned and get them out of the
house and, he hoped, away from the virus. He called a doctor friend for
a prescription, and left the maid twenty doUars to pick up the medication
at the pharmacy in an hour. He said good-bye to Ruth, who was lying
on the floor of the bathroom with a pillow under her head and an
icepack over her face, and left the house with the boys.

Not all of his practice was devoted to civil rights litigation; there was
not enough of that to survive on in Mississippi in 1967. He handled a
few criminal cases and other generic civil matters: divorces, zoning,
bankruptcy, real estate. And despite the fact that his father barely spoke
to him, and the rest of the Kramers barely uttered his name, Marvin
spent a third of his time at the office working on family business. On this
particular morning, he was scheduled to appear in court at 9 a.m. to
argue a motion in a lawsuit involving his uncle's real estate.

The twins loved his law office. They were not due at nursery school
until eight, so Marvin could work a little before delivering the boys and
heading on to court. This happened perhaps once a month. In fact,
hardly a day passed without one of the twins begging Marvin to take
them to his office first and then to nursery school.

They arrived at the office around seven-thirty, and once inside, the
twins went straight for the secretary's desk and the thick stack of typing
paper, all waiting to be cut and copied and stapled and folded into
envelopes. The office was a sprawling structure, built over time with
additions here and there. The front door opened into a small foyer where
the receptionist's desk sat almost under a stairway. Four chairs for waiting
clients hugged the wall. Magazines were scattered under the chairs. To
the right and left of the foyer were small offices fbr lawyers — Marvin
now had three associates working for him. A halKvay ran directly from
the foyer through the center of the downstairs, so from the front door
the rear of the building could be seen some eighty feet away. Marvin's

b JOHNGRISHAM

office was the largest room downstairs, and it was the last door on the
left, next to the cluttered closet. Just across the hall from the closet was
Marvin's secretary's office. Her name was Helen, a shapely young
woman Marvin had been dreaming about for eighteen months.

Upstairs on the second floor were the cramped offices of another
lawyer and two secretaries. The third floor had no heat or air condition-
ing, and was used for storage.

He normally arrived at the office between seven-thirty and eight be-
cause he enjoyed a quiet hour before the rest of the firm arrived and the
phone started ringing. As usual, he was the first to arrive on Friday,
April 21.

He unlocked the front door, turned on the Hght switch, and stopped
in the foyer. He lectured the twins about making a mess on Helen's
desk, but they were off down the hallway and didn't hear a word. Josh
already had the scissors and John the stapler by the time Marvin stuck his
head in for the first time and warned them. He smiled to himself, then
went to his office where he w^as soon deep in research.

At about a quarter to eight, he would recall later from the hospital,
Marvin climbed the stairs to the third floor to retrieve an old file which,
he thought at the time, had some relevance to the case he was preparing.
He mumbled something to himself as he bounced up the steps. As things
evolved, the old file saved his Hfe. The boys were laughing somewhere
down the hall.

The blast shot upward and horizontally at several thousand feet per
second. Fifteen sticks of dynamite in the center of a wooden framed
building will reduce it to spHnters and rubble in a matter of seconds. It
took a full minute for the jagged slivers of wood and other debris to
return to earth. The ground seemed to shake like a small earthquake,
and, as witnesses would later describe, bits of glass sprinkled downtown
Greenville for what seemed Hke an eternity.

Josh and John Kramer were less than fifteen feet from the epicenter of
the blast, and fortunately never knew what hit them. They did not
suffer. Their mangled bodies were found under eight feet of rubble by
local firemen. Marvin Kramer was thrown first against the ceiHng of the
third floor, then, unconscious, fell along with the remnants of the roof
into the smoking crater in the center of the building. He was found
twenty minutes later and rushed to the hospital. Within three hours,
both legs were amputated at the knees.

The time of the blast was exactly seven forty-six, and this in itself was
somewhat fortunate. Helen, Marvin's secretary, was leaving the post
office four blocks away and felt the blast. Another ten minutes, and she
would have been inside making coffee. David Lukland, a young associate

thec:hamber 9

in the law firm, lived three blocks away, and had just locked his apart-
ment door when he heard and felt the blast. Another ten minutes, and
he would've been picking through his mail in his second-floor office.

A small fire was ignited in the office building next door, and though it
was quickly contained it added greatly to the excitement. The smoke
was heavy for a few moments, and this sent people scurrying.

There were two injuries to pedestrians. A three-foot section of a two-
by-four landed on a sidewalk a hundred yards away, bounced once, then
hit Mrs. Mildred Talton square in the face as she stepped away from her
parked car and looked in the direction of the explosion. She received a
broken nose and a nasty laceration, but recovered in due course.

The second injury was very minor but very significant. A stranger by
the name of Sam Cayhall was walking slowly toward the Kramer office
when the ground shook so hard he lost his footing and tripped on a
street curb. As he struggled to his feet, he was hit once in the neck and
once in the left cheek by flying glass. He ducked behind a tree as shards
and pieces rained around him. He gaped at the devastation before him,
then ran away.

Blood dripped from his cheek and puddled on his shirt. He was in
shock and did not remember much of this later. Driving the same green
Pontiac, he sped away from downtown, and would most Hkely have
made it safely from Greenville for the second time had he been thinking
and paying attention. Two cops in a patrol car were speeding into the
business district to respond to the bombing call when they met a green
Pontiac which, for some reason, refused to move to the shoulder and
yield. The patrol car had sirens blaring, lights flashing, horns blowing,
and cops cursing, but the green Pontiac just froze in its lane of traffic and
wouldn't budge. The cops stopped, ran to it, yanked open the door, and
found a man with blood all over him. Handcuffs were slapped around
Sam's wrists. He was shoved roughly into the rear seat of the police car,
and taken to jail. The Pontiac was impounded.

THE BOMB that killed the Kramer twins was the crudest of sorts.
Fifteen sticks of dynamite wrapped tightly together with gray duct tape.
But there was no fuse. RoUie Wedge had used instead a detonating
device, a timer, a cheap windup alarm clock. He had removed the min-
ute hand from the clock, and drilled a small hole between the numbers
seven and eight. Into the small hole he had inserted a metal pin which,
when touched by the sweeping hour hand, would complete the circuit
and detonate the bomb. Rollie wanted more time than a fifteen-minute
fuse could provide. Plus, he considered himself an expert and wanted to
experiment with new devices.

10 JOHNGRISHAM

Perhaps the hour hand was warped a bit. Perhaps the dial of the clock
was not perfectly flat. Perhaps Rollie in his enthusiasm had wound it too
tight, or not tight enough. Perhaps the metal pin was not flush with the
dial. It was, after all, Rollie's first eflbrt with a timer. Or perhaps the
timing device worked precisely as planned.

But whatever the reason or whatever the excuse, the bombing cam-
paign of Jeremiah Dogan and the Ku Klux Klan had now spilled Jewish
blood in Mississippi. And, for all practical purposes, the campaign was
over.

TWO

ONCE THE BODIES were removed, the Greenville police
sealed off the area around the ruins and kept the crowd away.
Within hours, the premises were given to an FBI team from
Jackson, and before dark a demolition unit was sifting through the rub-
ble. Dozens of FBI agents solemnly began the tedious task of picking up
every tiny piece, examining it, showing it to someone else, then packing
it away to be fitted together on another day. An empty cotton warehouse
on the edge of town was leased and became the repository for the
Kramer rubble.

With time, the FBI would confirm what it initially assumed. Dyna-
mite, a timer, and a few wires. Just a basic bomb hooked together by a
hack lucky enough not to have killed himself

Marvin Kramer was quickly flown to a fancier hospital in Memphis,
and Hsted as critical but stable for three days. Ruth Kramer was hospital-
ized for shock, first in Greenville, then driven in an ambulance to the
same hospital in Memphis. They shared a room, Mr. and Mrs. Kramer,
and also shared a sufficient quantity of sedatives. Coundess doctors and
relatives stood vigil. Ruth was born and raised in Memphis, so there
were plenty of friends to watch her.

AS THE DUST WAS SETTLING around Marvin's office, the neigh-
bors, some of them storekeepers and others office clerks, swept glass
from the sidewalks and whispered to one another as they watched the
police and rescue people start the digging. A mighty rumor swept down-
town Greenville that a suspect was already in custody. By noon on the

12 JOHNGRISHAM

day of the bombing, it was common knowledge among the clusters of
onlookers that the man's name was Sam Cayhall, from Clanton, Missis-
sippi, that he was a member of the Klan, and that he was somehow
injured in the attack. One report provided ghastly details of other
Cayhall bombings with all sorts of gruesome injuries and disfigured
corpses, all involving poor Negroes, though. Another report told of the
brilliant heroics of the Greenville police in tracking down this madman
within seconds of the blast. On the news at noon, the Greenville TV
station confirmed what was already known, that the two little boys were
dead, their father was severely injured, and that Sam Cayhall was in
custody.

Sam Cayhall came within moments of being released on thirty dollars'
bond. By the time he was rushed to the poUce station, he had regained
his senses and had apologized sufficiently to the angry cops for not
yielding as they wished. He was booked on a very minor charge, and
sent to a holding room to be further processed and released. The two
arresting officers sped away to inspect the blast.

A janitor who doubled as the jail medic approached Sam with a bat-
tered first aid kit, and washed the dried blood from his face. The bleed-
ing had stopped. Sam repeated again that he'd been in a fight in a bar.
Rough night. The medic left, and an hour later an assistant jailer ap-
peared in the sliding window of the holding room with more papers.
The charge was failure to yield to an emergency vehicle, the maximum
fine was thirty dollars, and if Sam could post this sum in cash then he
would be free to go as soon as the paperwork cleared and the car was
released. Sam paced nervously around the room, glancing at his watch,
softly rubbing the wound to his cheek.

He vvAould be forced to disappear. There was a record of this arrest,
and it wouldn't be long before these yokels put his name and the bomb-
ing together, and then, well, he needed to run away. He'd leave Missis-
sippi, maybe team up with RolHe Wedge and leave for Brazil or some
place. Dogan would give them the money. He'd call Dogan as soon as
he left Greenville. His car was sitting at the truck stop in Cleveland. He
would swap vehicles there, then head on to Memphis and catch a Grey-
hound bus.

That's what he would do. He was an idiot for returning to the scene,
but, he thought, if he just kept his cool these clowns would release him.

Half an hour passed before the assistant jailer arrived with another
form. Sam handed him thirty dollars cash, and received a receipt. He
followed the man through a narrow^ hallway to the front desk of the jail
where he was given a summons to appear in Greenville Municipal Court
in two weeks. "Where's the car?" he asked as he folded the summons.

THECHAMBER 13

"They're bringing it. Just wait here."

Sam checked his watch and waited for fifteen minutes. Through a
smaU window in a metal door he watched cars come and go in the
parking lot in front of the jail. Two drunks were dragged to the desk by a
husky cop. Sam fidgeted, and waited.

From somewhere behind him a new voice called slowly, "Mr.
Cayhall." He turned and came face-to-face with a short man in a badly
faded suit. A badge was waved under Sam's nose.

"I'm Detective Ivy, Greenville P.D. Need to ask you a few ques-
tions." Ivy waved at a row of wooden doors along a hallway, and Sam
obediently followed.

FROM THE MOMENT he first sat across the dirty desk from Detec-
tive Ivy, Sam Cayhall had little to say. Ivy was in his early forties but gray
and heavily wrinkled around the eyes. He ht an unfiltered Camel, of-
fered one to Sam, then asked how his face got cut. Sam played with the
cigarette but did not light it. He'd given up smoking years earHer, and
though he felt the urge to start puffing at this critical moment, he just
thumped it gently on the table. Without looking at Ivy, he said that
maybe he'd been in a fight.

Ivy sort of grunted with a short smile as if he expected this type of
reply, and Sam knew he was facing a pro. He was scared now, and his
hands began shaking. Ivy, of course, noticed all this. Where was the
fight? Who were you fighting with? When did it happen? Why were
you fighting here in Greenville when you live three hours away? Where
did you get the car?

Sam said nothing. Ivy peppered him with questions, all unanswerable
by Sam because the lies would lead to more Ues and Ivy would have him
tied in knots in seconds.

"I'd hke to talk to an attorney," Sam finally said.

"That's just wonderful, Sam. I think that's exactly what you should
do." Ivy lit another Camel and blew thick smoke at the ceiling.

"We had a Httle bomb blast this morning, Sam. Do you know that?"
Ivy asked, his voice rising slightly in a mocking tone.

"No."

"Tragic. A local lav^er by the name of Kramer got his office blown to
bits. Happened about two hours ago. Probably the work of Kluckers,
you know. We don't have any Kluckers around here, but Mr. Kramer is
a Jewish fellow. Let me guess — you know nothing about it, right?"

"That's right."

"Really, really sad, Sam. You see, Mr. Kramer had two little boys.

14 JOHNGRISHAM

Josh and John, and, as fate would have it, they were in the office with
their daddy when the bomb went off."

Sam breathed deeply and looked at Ivy. Tell me the rest of it, his eyes
said.

"And these two Uttle boys, twins, five years old, just cute as can be,
got blown to bits, Sam. Deader than hell, Sam."

Sam slowly lowered his head until his chin was an inch off his chest.
He was beaten. Murder, two counts. Lawyers, trials, judges, juries,
prison, everything hit at once and he closed his eyes.

"Their daddy might get lucky. He's at the hospital now in surgery.
The Httle boys are at the funeral home. A real tragedy, Sam. Don't
suppose you know anything about the bomb, do you, Sam?"

"No. I'd like to see a lawyer."

"Of course." Ivy slowly stood and left the room.

THE PIECE OF GLASS in Sam's face was extracted by a physician and
sent to an FBI lab. The report contained no surprises — same glass as the
front windows of the office building. The green Pontiac was quickly
traced to Jeremiah Dogan in Meridian. A fifteen-minute fuse was found
in the trunk. A deUveryman came forward and explained to the police
that he had seen the car near Mr. Kramer's office around 4 a.m.

The FBI made sure the press immediately knew Mr. Sam CayhaU was
a longtime member of the Klan, and that he was the prime suspect in
several more bombings. The case was cracked, they felt, and they heaped
accolades upon the Greenville poHce. J. Edgar Hoover himself issued a
statement.

Two days after the bombing, the Kramer twins were laid to rest in a
small cemetery. At the time, 146 Jews lived in GreenviUe, and with the
exception of Marvin Kramer and six others, every one attended the
service. And they were outnumbered two to one by reporters and pho-
tographers from aU over the country.

SAM SAW THE PICTURES and read the stories in his tiny cell the
next morning. The assistant jailer, Larry Jack Polk, was a simpleton who
by now was a friend because, as he had whispered to Sam early on, he
had cousins who were Klansmen and he'd always wanted to join but his
wife wouldn't stand for it. He brought Sam ffesh coffee and newspapers
each morning. Larry Jack had already confessed his admiration for Sam's
bombing skiUs.

Other than the few bare words needed to keep Larry Jack manipu-
lated, Sam said virtually nothing. The day after the bombing he had
been charged with tw^o counts of capital murder, so the gas chamber

THECHAMBER 15

scenario occupied his thoughts. He refused to say a word to Ivy and the
other police; same for the FBI. The reporters asked, of course, but didn't
make it past Larry Jack. Sam phoned his wife and told her to stay in
Clanton with the doors locked. He sat alone in his cinder-block cell and
began a diary.

If Rollie Wedge was to be discovered and Hnked to the bombing, then
he would have to be found by the cops. Sam Cayhall had taken an oath
as a Klansman, and to him the oath was sacred. He would never, never
squeal on a Klansman. He fervently hoped Jeremiah Dogan felt the same
about his oath.

Two days after the bombing, a shady lawyer with a swirling hairdo
named Clovis Brazelton made his first appearance in Greenville. He was
a secret member of the Klan, and had become quite notorious around
Jackson representing all sorts of thugs. He wanted to run for governor,
said his platform would stand for the preservation of the white race, that
the FBI was satanic, that blacks should be protected but not mixed with
whites, and so on. He was sent by Jeremiah Dogan to defend Sam
Cayhall, and more importantly, to make sure Cayhall kept his mouth
shut. The FBI was all over Dogan because of the green Pontiac, and he
feared an indictment as a co-conspirator.

Co-conspirators, Clovis explained to his new client right off the bat,
are just as guilty as the ones who actually puU the trigger. Sam listened,
but said little. He had heard of Brazelton, and did not yet trust him.

"Look, Sam," Clovis said as if explaining things to a first grader, "I
know who planted the bomb. Dogan told me. If I count correctly, that
makes four of us — me, you, Dogan, and Wedge. Now, at this point,
Dogan is almost certain that Wedge will never be found. They haven't
talked, but the kid's brilliant and he's probably in another country by
now. That leaves you and Dogan. Frankly, I expect Dogan to be charged
anytime now. But the cops'U have a hard time nailing him unless they
can prove that ya'll conspired to blow up the Jew's office. And the only
way they can prove this is if you tell them."

"So I take the fall?" Sam asked.

"No. You just keep quiet about Dogan. Deny everything. We'll fabri-
cate a story about the car. Let me worry about that. I'll get the trial
moved to another county, maybe up in the hills or some place where
they don't have Jews. Get us an all-white jury, and I'll hang it up so fast
it'll make heroes out of both of us. Just let me handle it."

"You don't think I'll be convicted?"

"Hell no. Listen, Sam, take my word for it. We'll get us a jury full of
patriots, your kind of people, Sam. All white. All worried about their
httle children being forced to go to schools with little nigger kids. Good

16 JOHNGRISHAM

people, Sam. We'U pick twelve of 'em, put 'em in the jury box, and
explain to 'em how these stinkin' Jews have encouraged aU this civil
rights nonsense. Trust me, Sam, it'U be easy." With that, Clovis leaned
across the shaky table, patted Sam on the arm, and said, "Trust me, Sam,
I've done it before."

Later that day, Sam was handcuffed, surrounded by Greenville city
policemen, and led to a waiting patrol car. Between the jail and the car,
he had his picture taken by a small army of photographers. Another
group of these assertive people w^ere waiting at the courthouse when
Sam arrived with his entourage.

He appeared before the municipal judge with his new lawyer, the
Honorable Clovis Brazelton, who waived the preHminary hearing and
performed a couple of other quiet and routine legal maneuvers. Twenty
minutes after he'd left the jail, Sam was back. Clovis promised to return
in a few days to start plotting strategy, then he wandered outside and
performed admirably for the reporters.

IT TOOK A FULL MONTH for the media frenzy to subside in Green-
ville. Both Sam Cayhall and Jeremiah Dogan were indicted for capital
murder on May 5, 1967. The local district attorney proclaimed loudly
that he would seek the death penalty. The name of RoUie Wedge w^as
never mentioned. The poHce and FBI had no idea he existed.

Clovis, now representing both defendants, successfully argued for a
change of venue, and on September 4, 1967, the trial began in Nettles
County, two hundred miles from Greenville. It turned into a circus. The
Klan set up camp on the front lawn of the courthouse and staged noisy
rallies almost on the hour. They shipped in Klansmen from other states,
even had a list of guest speakers. Sam Cayhall and Jeremiah Dogan w^ere
seized as symbols of white supremacy, and their beloved names were
called a thousand times by their hooded admirers.

The press watched and waited. The courtroom was filled with report-
ers and journaHsts, so the less fortunate were forced to wait under the
shade trees on the front la^vn. They watched the Klansmen and listened
to the speeches, and the more they watched and photographed the
longer the speeches became.

Inside the courtroom, things were going smoothly for Cayhall and
Dogan. Brazelton worked his magic and seated twelve white patriots, as
he preferred to call them, on the jury, then began poking rather signifi-
cant holes in the prosecution's case. Most importantly, the evidence was
circumstantial — no one actually saw Sam Cayhall plant the bomb. Clovis
preached this loudly in his opening statement, and it found its mark.
Cayhall was actually employed by Dogan, who'd sent him to Greenville

T H E C H A M B E R 17

on an errand, and he just happened to be near the Kramer building at a
most unfortunate moment. Clovis almost cried when he thought of
those two precious httle boys.

The dynamite fuse in the trunk had probably been left there by its
previous owner, a Mr. Carson Jenkins, a dirt contractor from Meridian.
Mr. Carson Jenkins testified that he handled dynamite all the time in his
line of work, and that he evidently had simply left the fuse in the trunk
when he sold the car to Dogan. Mr. Carson Jenkins was a Sunday school
teacher, a quiet, hardworking salt-of-the-earth Htde man who was
completely believable. He was also a member of the Ku Klux Klan, but
the FBI didn't know it. Clovis orchestrated this testimony without a
flaw.

The fact that Cayhall's car had been left at the truck stop in Cleveland
was never discovered by the police or FBI. During his first phone call
from jail, he had instructed his wife to get his son, Eddie Cayhall, and
drive to Cleveland immediately for the car. This was a significant piece
of luck for the defense.

But the strongest argument presented by Clovis Brazelton was simply
that no one could prove that his cHents conspired to do anything, and
how in the world can you, the jurors of Nettles County, send these two
men to their deaths?

After four days of trial, the jury retired to deliberate. Clovis guaran-
teed his clients an acquittal. The prosecution was almost certain of one.
The Kluckers smelled victory, and increased the tempo on the front
lawn.

There were no acquittals, and there were no convictions. Remarkably,
two of the jurors boldly dug in their heels and pressed to convict. After a
day and a half of deliberations, the jury reported to the judge that it was
hopelessly deadlocked. A mistrial was declared, and Sam Cayhall went
home for the first time in five months.

THE RETRIAL took place six months later in Wilson County, another
rural area four hours from Greenville and a hundred miles from the site
of the first trial. There were complaints of Klan harassment of prospec-
tive jurors in the first trial, so the judge, for reasons that were never made
clear, changed venue to an area crawling with Kluckers and their sympa-
thizers. The jury again was aU-white and certainly non-Jewish. Clovis
told the same stories with the same punch lines. Mr. Carson Jenkins told
the same lies.

The prosecution changed strategy a bit, to no avail. The district attor-
ney dropped the capital charges and pressed for a conviction for murder
only. No death penalty, and the jury could, if it so chose, find Cayhall

18 JOHNGRISHAM

and Dogan guilty of manslaughter, a much Hghter charge but a convic-
tion nonetheless.

The second trial had something new. Marvin Kramer sat in a wheel-
chair by the front row and glared at the jurors for three days. Ruth had
tried to watch the first trial, but v^ent home to Greenville where she was
hospitaHzed again for emotional problems. Marvin had been in and out
of surgery since the bombing, and his doctors would not allow him to
watch the show in Nettles County.

For the most part, the jurors could not stand to look at him. They
kept their eyes away from the spectators, and, for jurors, paid remarkable
attention to the witnesses. However, one young lady, Sharon Culpepper,
mother of twin boys, could not help herself. She glanced at Marvin
repeatedly, and many times their eyes locked. He pleaded with her for
justice.

Sharon Culpepper was the only one of the tw^elve who initially voted
to convict. For two days she was verbally abused and harangued by her
peers. They called her names and made her cry, but she doggedly held
on.

The second trial ended with a jury hung eleven to one. The judge
declared a mistrial, and sent everybody home. Marvin Kramer returned
to Greenville, then to Memphis for more surgery. Clovis Brazelton
made a spectacle of himself with the press. The district attorney made no
promises of a new trial. Sam CayhaU went quietly to Clanton with a
solemn vow to avoid any more deaUngs with Jeremiah Dogan. And the
Imperial Wizard himself made a triumphant return to Meridian where
he boasted to his people that the battle for white supremacy had just
begun, good had defeated evil, and on and on.

The name of RoUie Wedge had been uttered only once. During a
lunch break in the second trial, Dogan whispered to CayhaU that a
message had been received from the kid. The messenger was a stranger
who spoke to Dogan's wife in a hallway outside the courtroom. And the
message was quite clear and simple. Wedge was nearby, in the woods,
watching the trial, and if Dogan or CayhaU mentioned his name, their
homes and families w^ould be bombed to heU and back.

THREE

RUTH AND MARVIN KRAMER separated in 1970. He was
admitted to a mental hospital later that year, and committed
k^ suicide in 1971. Ruth returned to Memphis and lived with her
parents. In spite of their problems, they had pressed hard for a third trial.
In fact, the Jewish community in Greenville was highly agitated and
vocal when it became apparent that the district attorney was tired of
losing and had lost his enthusiasm for prosecuting Cayhall and Dogan.

Marvin was buried next to his sons. A new park was dedicated to the
memory of Josh and John Kramer, and scholarships were established.
With time, the tragedy of their deaths lost some of its horror. Years
passed, and Greenville talked less and less about the bombing.

Despite pressure from the FBI, a third trial did not materialize. There
was no new evidence. The judge would no doubt change venue again. A
prosecution looked hopeless, but still the FBI did not quit.

With CayhaU unwilling and Wedge unavailable, Dogan's bombing
campaign fizzled. He continued to wear his robe and make his speeches,
and began to fancy himself as a major political force. Journalists up
North were intrigued by his blatant race-baiting, and he was always
willing to put on his hood and give outrageous interviews. He was
mildly famous for a brief period, and he enjoyed it immensely.

But by the late 1970s, Jeremiah Dogan was just another thug with a
robe in a rapidly declining organization. Blacks were voting. The public
schools were desegregated. Racial barriers were being struck down by
federal judges throughout the South. Civil rights had arrived in Missis-

20 JOHNGRISHAM

sippi, and the Klan had proven pitifully inept in keeping Negroes where
they belonged. Dogan couldn't draw flies to a cross-burning.

In 1979, two significant events occurred in the open but inactive
Kramer bombing case. The first w^as the election of David McAllister as
the district attorney in Greenville. At tw^enty-seven he became the youn-
gest D.A. in the state's history. As a teenager he had stood in the crowd
and watched the FBI pick through the rubble of Marvin Kramer's office.
Shortly after his election, he voAved to bring the terrorists to justice.

The second event was the indictment of Jeremiah Dogan for income
tax evasion. After years of successfully dodging the FBI, Dogan got
sloppy and ran afoul of the IRS. The investigation took eight months
and resulted in an indictment that ran for thirty pages. According to it,
Dogan had failed to report over a hundred thousand doUars between
1974 and 1978. It contained eighty-six counts, and carried a maximum
of twenty-eight years in prison.

Dogan was dead guilty, and his la\vyer (not Clovis Brazelton) immedi-
ately began exploring the possibility of a plea bargain. Enter the FBI.

Through a series of heated and angry meetings with Dogan and his
lawyer, a deal was offered by the government whereby Dogan would
testify against Sam CayhaU in the Kramer case, and in return he would
serve no time in jail for tax evasion. Zero days behind bars. Heavy
probation and fines, but no jail. Dogan had not spoken to CayhaU in
over ten years. Dogan was not active in the Klan anymore. There were
lots of reasons to consider the deal, not the least of which was the issue
of remaining a free man or spending a decade or so in prison.

To prod him along, the IRS attached aU of his assets, and planned a
nice Httle fire sale. And to help with his decision, David McAllister
convinced a grand jury in Greenville to indict him and his pal CayhaU
once again for the Kramer bombing.

Dogan caved in and jumped at the deal.

AFTER TWELVE YEARS of living quietly in Ford County, Sam
CayhaU once again found himself indicted, arrested, and facing the cer-
tainty of a trial and the possibility of the gas chamber. He was forced to
mortgage his house and smaU farm to hire a lawyer. Clovis Brazelton had
gone on to bigger things, and Dogan was no longer an aUy.

Much had changed in Mississippi since the first two trials. Blacks had
registered to vote in record numbers, and these new voters had elected
black officials. All-white juries were rare. The state had two black trial
judges, two black sheriffs, and black lawyers could be spotted with their
white brethren roaming the courthouse haUways. OfficiaUy, segregation
was over. And many white Mississippians were beginning to look back

THECHAMBER 21

and wonder what all the fuss was about. Why had there been such
resistance to basic rights for all people? Though it had a long way to go,
Mississippi was a far different place in 1980 than in 1967. And Sam
Cayhall understood this.

He hired a skilled trial advocate from Memphis named Benjamin
Keyes. Their first tactic was to move to dismiss the indictment on the
grounds that it was unfair to try him again after such a delay. This proved
to be a persuasive argument, and it took a decision by the Mississippi
Supreme Court to settle the matter. By a vote of six to three, the court
ruled that the prosecution could proceed.

And proceed it did. The third and final trial of Sam Cayhall began in
February of 1981, in a chilly little courthouse in Lakehead County, a hill
county in the northeastern corner of the state. Much could be said about
the trial. There was a young district attorney, David McAllister, who
performed brilliantly but had the obnoxious habit of spending all his
spare time with the press. He was handsome and articulate and compas-
sionate, and it became very clear that this trial had a purpose. Mr.
McAllister had political ambitions on a grand scale.

There was a jury of eight whites and four blacks. There were the glass
sample, the fuse, the FBI reports, and all the other photos and exhibits
from the first two trials.

And then, there was the testimony of Jeremiah Dogan, who took the
stand in a denim workshirt and with a humble countenance solemnly
explained to the jury how he conspired with Sam Cayhall sitting over
there to bomb the office of Mr. Kramer. Sam glared at him intensely and
absorbed every word, but Dogan looked away. Sam's lawyer berated
Dogan for half a day, and forced him to admit that he'd cut a deal with
the government. But the damage was done.

It was of no benefit to the defense of Sam Cayhall to raise the issue of
Rollie Wedge. Because to do so would be to admit that Sam in fact had
been in Greenville with the bomb. Sam would be forced to admit that
he was a co-conspirator, and under the law he would be just as guilty as
the man who planted the dynamite. And to present this scenario to the
jury, Sam would be forced to testify, something neither he nor his attor-
ney wanted. Sam could not withstand a rigorous cross-examination, be-
cause Sam would be forced to tell one lie to cover the last.

And, at this point, no one would believe a sudden tale of a mysterious
new terrorist who'd never been mentioned before, and who came and
went without being seen. Sam knew the Rollie Wedge angle was futile,
and he never mentioned the man's name to his own lawyer.

22 JOHNGRISHAM

AT THE CLOSE of the trial, David McAllister stood before the jury in
a packed courtroom and presented his closing argument. He talked of
being a youngster in Greenville and having Jewish friends. He didn't
know they were different. He knew some of the Kramers, fine folks who
worked hard and gave back to the town. He also played with little black
kids, and learned they made wonderful friends. He never understood
why they went to one school and he went to another. He told a gripping
story of feeling the earth shake on the morning of April 21, 1967, and
running in the direction of downtown where smoke was drifting up-
ward. For three hours, he stood behind the poHce barricades and waited.
He saw the firemen scurry about when they found Marvin Kramer. He
saw them huddle in the debris when they found the boys. Tears dripped
down his cheeks when the little bodies, covered in white sheets, were
carried slowly to an ambulance.

It was a splendid performance, and when McAllister finished the
courtroom was silent. Several of the jurors dabbed at their eyes.

ON FEBRUARY 12, 1981, Sam CayhaU was convicted on two counts
of capital murder and one count of attempted murder. Two days later,
the same jury in the same courtroom returned with a sentencing verdict
of death.

He was transported to the state penitentiary at Parchman to begin
waiting for his appointment with the gas chamber. On February 19,
1981, he first set foot on death row.

FOUR

THE LAW FIRM of Kravitz & Bane had almost three hundred
lawyers peacefully coexisting under the same roof in Chicago.
Two hundred and eighty-six to be exact, though it was difficult
for anyone to keep score because at any given moment there were a
dozen or so leaving for a multitude of reasons, and there were always two
dozen or so shiny, fresh new recruits trained and polished and just itch-
ing for combat. And though it was huge, Kravitz & Bane had failed to
play the expansion game as quickly as others, had failed to gobble up
weaker firms in other cities, had been slow to raid clients from its com-
petitors, and thus had to suffer the distinction of being only the third-
largest firm in Chicago. It had offices in six cities, but, much to the
embarrassment of the younger partners, there was no London address on
the letterhead.

Though it had mellowed some, Kravitz & Bane was still known as a
vicious Htigation firm. It had tamer departments for real estate, tax, and
antitrust, but its money was made in Htigation. When the firm recruited
it sought the brightest third-year students with the highest marks in
mock trials and debate. It wanted young men (a token female here and
there) who could be instantly trained in the slash-and-attack style per-
fected long ago by Kravitz & Bane litigators.

There was a nice though small unit for plaintiffs' personal injury work,
good stuff from which they took 50 percent and allowed their clients the
remainder. There was a sizable section for white-collar criminal defense,
but the white-collar defendant needed a sizable net worth to strap on
Kravitz & Bane. Then there were the two largest sections, one for com-

24 JOHNGRISHAM

mercial litigation and one for insurance defense. With the exception of
the plaintiffs' work, and as a percentage of gross it was almost insignifi-
cant, the firm's money was earned by billable hours. Two hundred bucks
per hour for insurance work; more if the traffic could stand it. Three
hundred bucks for criminal defense. Four hundred for a big bank. Even
five hundred dollars an hour for a rich corporate client with lazy in-
house la"wyers who were asleep at the \vheel.

Kravitz & Bane printed money by the hour and built a dynasty in
Chicago. Its offices were fashionable but not plush. They filled the top
floors of, fittingly, the third-tallest building downtown.

Like most large firms, it made so much money it felt obligated to
establish a small pro bono section to fulfill its moral responsibility to
society. It was quite proud of the fact that it had a fuU-time pro bono
partner, an eccentric do-gooder named E. Garner Goodman, who had a
spacious office with two secretaries on the sixty-first floor. He shared a
paralegal with a litigation partner. The firm's gold-embossed brochure
made much of the fact that its lawyers were encouraged to pursue pro
bono projects. The brochure proclaimed that last year, 1989, Kravitz &
Bane lawyers donated almost sixty thousand hours of their precious time
to clients ■who couldn't pay. Housing project kids, death row inmates,
illegal aliens, drug addicts, and, of course, the firm was deeply concerned
with the pHght of the homeless. The brochure even had a photograph of
two young lawyers, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, ties loosened about the
neck, sweat in the armpits, eyes filled with compassion, as they per-
formed some menial chore in the midst of a group of minority children
in what appeared to be an urban landfill. Lawyers saving society.

Adam HaU had one of the brochures in his thin file as he eased slowly
along the hallway on floor sixty-one, headed in the general direction of
the office of E. Garner Goodman. He nodded and spoke to another
young lawyer, one he'd never seen before. At the firm Christmas party
name tags were distributed at the door. Some of the partners barely
knew^ each other. Some of the associates saw each other once or twice a
year. He opened a door and entered a small room w^here a secretary
stopped typing and almost smiled. He asked for Mr. Goodman, and she
nodded properly to a row of chairs where he was to wait. He was five
minutes early for a 10 a.m. appointment, as if it mattered. This was pro
bono now. Forget the clock. Forget billable hours. Forget performance
bonuses. In defiance of the rest of the firm, Goodman allowed no clocks
on his walls.

Adam flipped through his file. He chuckled at the brochure. He read
again his own little resume — college at Pepperdine, law school at Michi-
gan, editor of the law review, case note on cruel and unusual punish-

THECHAMBER 25

ment, comments on recent death penalty cases. A rather short resume,
but then he was only twenty-six. He'd been employed at Kravitz & Bane
for aU of nine months now.

He read and made notes from two lengthy U.S. Supreme Court deci-
sions dealing with executions in CaHfornia. He checked his watch, and
read some more. The secretary eventually offered coffee, which he po-
litely declined.

THE OFFICE of E. Garner Goodman was a stunning study in disorgan-
ization. It was large but cramped, with sagging bookshelves on every
wall and stacks of dusty files covering the floor. Little piles of papers of
all sorts and sizes covered the desk in the center of the office. Refuse,
rubbish, and lost letters covered the rug under the desk. If not for the
closed wooden bHnds, the large window could have provided a splendid
view of Lake Michigan, but it was obvious Mr. Goodman spent no time
at his window.

He was an old man with a neat gray beard and bushy gray hair. His
white shirt was painfully starched. A green paisley bow tie, his trade-
mark, was tied precisely under his chin. Adam entered the room and
cautiously weaved around the piles of papers. Goodman did not stand
but offered his hand with a cold greeting.

Adam handed the file to Goodman, and sat in the only empty chair in
the room. He waited nervously while the file was studied, the beard was
gently stroked, the bow tie was tinkered with.

"Why do you want to do pro bono work?" Goodman mumbled after
a long silence. He did not look up firom the file. Classical guitar music
drifted softly from recessed speakers in the ceiling.

Adam shifted uncomfortably. "Uh, different reasons."

"Let me guess. You want to serve humanity, give something back to
your community, or, perhaps, you feel guilty because you spend so
much time here in this sweatshop billing by the hour that you want to
cleanse your soul, get your hands dirty, do some honest work, and help
other people." Goodman's beady blue eyes darted at Adam from above
the black-framed reading spectacles perched on the tip of his rather
pointed nose. "Any of the above?"

"Not really."

Goodman continued scanning the file. "So you've been assigned to
Emmitt Wycoff?" He was reading a letter from Wycoff, Adam's super-
vising partner.

"Yes sir."

"He's a fine lawyer. I don't particularly care for him, but he's got a

26 JOHNGRISHAM

great criminal mind, you know. Probably one of our top three white-
collar boys. Pretty abrasive, though, don't you think?"

"He's okay."

"How long have you been under him?"

"Since I started. Nine months ago."

"So you've been here for nine months?"

"Yes sir."

"What do you think of it?" Goodman closed the file and stared at
Adam. He slowly removed the reading glasses and stuck one stem in his
mouth.

"I like it, so far. It's challenging."

"Of course. Why did you pick Kravitz & Bane? I mean, surely with
your credentials you could've gone anywhere. Why here?"

"Criminal Utigation. That's what I want, and this firm has a reputa-
tion."

"How many offers did you have? Come on, I'm just being curious."

"Several."

"And where were they?"

"D.C. mainly. One in Denver. I didn't interview with New York
firms."

"How much money did we offer you?"

Adam shifted again. Goodman was, after aU, a partner. Surely he knew
what the firm was paying new associates. "Sixty or so. What are we
paying you?"

This amused the old man, and he smiled for the first time. "They pay
me four hundred thousand dollars a year to give away their time so they
can pat themselves on the back and preach about lawyers and about
social responsibility. Four hundred thousand, can you believe it?"

Adam had heard the rumors. "You're not complaining, are you?"

"No. I'm the luckiest lawyer in town, Mr. Hall. I get paid a truckload
of money for doing work I enjoy, and I punch no clock and don't worry
about billing. It's a lawyer's dream. That's why I still bust my ass sixty
hours a week. I'm almost seventy, you know."

The legend around the firm was that Goodman, as a younger man,
succumbed to the pressure and almost killed himself with Hquor and
pills. He dried out for a year while his wife took the kids and left him,
then he convinced the partners he was worth saving. He just needed an
office where Hfe did not revolve around a clock.

"What kind of work are you doing for Emmitt Wycoff?" Goodman
asked.

"Lot of research. Right now he's defending a bunch of defense con-
tractors, and that takes most of my time. I argued a motion in court last

THECHAMBER 27

week." Adam said this with a touch of pride. Rookies were usually kept
chained to their desks for the first twelve months.

"A real motion?" Goodman asked, in awe.

"Yes sir."

"In a real courtroom?"

"Yes sir."

"Before a real judge?"

"You got it."

"Who won?"

"Judge ruled for the prosecution, but it was close. I really tied him in
knots." Goodman smiled at this, but the game was quickly over. He
opened the file again.

"WycofF sends along a pretty strong letter of recommendation. That's
out of character for him."

"He recognizes talent," Adam said with a smile.

"I assume this is a rather significant request, Mr. Hall. Just what is it
you have in mind?"

Adam stopped smiUng and cleared his throat. He was suddenly ner-
vous, and decided to recross his legs. "It's, uh, well, it's a death penalty
case."

"A death penalty case?" Goodman repeated.

"Yes sir."

"Why?"

"I'm opposed to the death penalty."

"Aren't we all, Mr. Hall? I've written books about it. I've handled
two dozen of these damned things. Why do you want to get involved?"

"I've read your books. I just want to help."

Goodman closed the file again and leaned on his desk. Two pieces of
paper slid off and fluttered to the floor. "You're too young and you're
too green."

"You might be surprised."

"Look, Mr. Hall, this is not the same as counseling winos at a soup
kitchen. This is Hfe and death. This is high pressure stuff, son. It's not a
lot of fun."

Adam nodded but said nothing. His eyes were locked onto Good-
man's, and he refused to blink. A phone rang somewhere in the distance,
but they both ignored it.

"Any particular case, or do you have a new client for Kravitz &
Bane?" Goodman asked.

"The Cayhall case," Adam said slowly.

Goodman shook his head and tugged at the edges of his bow tie.

28 JOHNGRISHAM

"Sam Cayhall just fired us. The Fifth Circuit ruled last week that he does
indeed have the right to terminate our representation."

"I've read the opinion. I know what the Fifth Circuit said. The man
needs a lawyer."

"No he doesn't. He'll be dead in three months with or without one.
Frankly, I'm relieved to have him out of my life."

"He needs a lawyer," Adam repeated.

"He's representing himself, and he's pretty damned good, to be per-
fectly honest. Types his own motions and briefs, handles his own re-
search. I hear he's been giving advice to some of his buddies on death
row, just the white ones though."

"I've studied his entire file."

E. Garner Goodman twirled his spectacles slowly and thought about
this. "That's a half a ton of paper. Why'd you do it?"

"I'm intrigued by the case. I've watched it for years, read everything
written about the man. You asked me earHer why I chose Kravitz &
Bane. Well, the truth is that I wanted to work on the CayhaU case, and I
think this firm has handled it pro bono for, what, eight years now?"

"Seven, but it seems like twenty. Mr. Cayhall is not the most pleasant
man to deal with."

"Understandable, isn't it? I mean, he's been in solitary for almost ten
years."

"Don't lecture me about prison life, Mr. Hall. Have you ever seen the
inside of a prison?"

"No."

"Well I have. I've been to death row in six states. I've been cursed by
Sam Cayhall when he was chained to his chair. He's not a nice man.
He's an incorrigible racist who hates just about everybody, and he'd hate
you if you met him."

"I don't think so."

"You're a lawyer, Mr. Hall. He hates lawyers worse than he hates
blacks and Jews. He's been facing death for almost ten years, and he's
convinced he's the victim of a lawyer conspiracy. Hell, he tried to fire us
for two years. This firm spent in excess of two million dollars in billable
time trying to keep him alive, and he was more concerned with firing
us. I lost count of the number of times he refused to meet with us after
we traveled all the way to Parchman. He's crazy, Mr. Hall. Find yourself
another project. How about abused kids or something?"

"No thanks. My interest is in death penalty cases, and I'm somewhat
obsessed with the story of Sam Cayhall."

Goodman carefully returned the spectacles to the tip of his nose, then
slowly swung his feet onto the corner of the desk. He folded his hands

THECHAMBER 29

across the starched shirt. "Why, may I ask, are you so obsessed with Sam
CayhaU?"

"Well, it's a fascinating case, don't you think? The Klan, the civil
rights movement, the bombings, the tortured locale. The backdrop is
such a rich period in American history. Seems ancient, but it was only
twenty-five years ago. It's a riveting story."

A ceiling fan spun slowly above him. A minute passed.

Goodman lowered his feet to the floor and rested on his elbows. "Mr.
Hall, I appreciate your interest in pro bono, and I assure you there's
much to do. But you need to find another project. This is not a mock
trial competition."

"And I'm not a law student."

"Sam Cayhall has effectively terminated our services, Mr. Hall. You
don't seem to realize this."

"I want the chance to meet with him."

"For what?"

"I think I can convince him to allow me to represent him."

"Oh really."

Adam took a deep breath, then stood and walked deftly around the
stacks of files to the window. Another deep breath. Goodman watched,
and waited.

"I have a secret for you, Mr. Goodman. No one else knows but
Emmitt Wycoff, and I was sort of forced to tell him. You must keep it
confidential, okay?"

"I'm listening."

"Do I have your word?"

"Yes, you have my word," Goodman said slowly, biting a stem.

Adam peeked through a slit in the blinds and watched a sailboat on
Lake Michigan. He spoke quietly. "I'm related to Sam Cayhall."

Goodman did not flinch. "I see. Related how?"

"He had a son, Eddie Cayhall. And Eddie Cayhall left Mississippi in
disgrace after his father was arrested for the bombing. He fled to Califor-
nia, changed his name, and tried to forget his past. But he was tor-
mented by his family's legacy. He committed suicide shortly after his
father was convicted in 1981."

Goodman now sat with his rear on the edge of his chair.

"Eddie Cayhall was my father."

Goodman hesitated slightly. "Sam Cayhall is your grandfather?"

"Yes. I didn't know it until I was almost seventeen. My aunt told me
after we buried my father."

"Wow."

"You promised not to tell."

30 JOHNGRISHAM

"Of course." Goodman moved his butt to the edge of his desk, and
placed his feet in the chair. He stared at the bHnds. "Does Sam know — "

"No. I was born in Ford County, Mississippi, a town called Clanton,
not Memphis. I was always told I was born in Memphis. My name then
w^as Alan Cayhall, but I didn't know this until much later. I was three
years old when we left Mississippi, and my parents never talked about the
place. My mother beheves that there was no contact between Eddie and
Sam from the day we left until she wrote him in prison and told him his
son was dead. He did not write back."

"Damn, damn, damn," Goodman mumbled to himself.

"There's a lot to it, Mr. Goodman. It's a pretty sick family."

"Not your fault."

"According to my mother, Sam's father was an active Klansman, took
part in lynchings and all that. So I come from pretty weak stock."

"Your father was different."

"My father killed himself. I'll spare you the details, but I found his
body, and I cleaned up the mess before my mother and sister returned
home."

"And you were seventeen?"

"Almost seventeen. It was 1981. Nine years ago. After my aunt, Ed-
die's sister, told me the truth, I became fascinated with the sordid history
of Sam Cayhall. I've spent hours in Hbraries digging up old newspaper
and magazine stories; there are quite a lot of materials. I've read the
transcripts of aU three trials. I've studied the appellate decisions. In law
school I began studying this firm's representation of Sam Cayhall. You
and Wallace Tyner have done exemplary work."

"I'm glad you approve."

"I've read hundreds of books and thousands of articles on the Eighth
Amendment and death penalty litigation. You've written four books, I
believe. And a number of articles. I know I'm just a rookie, but my
research is impeccable."

"And you think Sam will trust you as his lawyer?"

"I don't know. But he's my grandfather, Uke it or not, and I have to
go see him."

"There's been no contact — "

"None. I was three when we left, and I certainly don't remember
him. I've started a thousand times to write him, but it never happened. I
can't tell you why."

"It's understandable."

"Nothing's understandable, Mr. Goodman. I do not understand how
or why I'm standing here in this office at this moment. I always wanted
to be a pilot, but I went to law school because I felt a vague calling to

THECHAMBER. 31

help society. Someone needed me, and I suppose I felt that someone was
my demented grandfather. I had four job offers, and I picked this firm
because it had the guts to represent him for free."

"You should' ve told someone up front about this, before we hired
you."

"I know. But nobody asked if my grandfather was a client of this
firm."

"You should've said something."

"They won't fire me, will they?"

"I doubt it. Where have you been for the past nine months?"

"Here, working ninety hours a week, sleeping on my desk, eating in
the Hbrary, cramming for the bar exam, you know, the usual rookie boot
camp you guys designed for us."

"Silly, isn't it?"

"I'm tough." Adam opened a slit in the blinds for a better view of the
lake. Goodman watched him.

"Why don't you open these blinds?" Adam asked. "It's a great view."

"I've seen it before."

"I'd kill for a view Hke this. My Httle cubbyhole is a mile from any
window."

"Work hard, bill even harder, and one day this will all be yours."

"Not me."

"Leaving us, Mr. HaU?"

"Probably, eventually. But that's another secret, okay? I plan to hit it
hard for a couple of years, then move on. Maybe open my own office,
one where Hfe does not revolve around a clock. I want to do public
interest work, you know, sort of like you."

"So after nine months you're already disiUusioned with Kravitz &
Bane."

"No. But I can see it coming. 1 don't want to spend my career
representing wealthy crooks and wayward corporations."

"Then you're certainly in the wrong place."

Adam left the window and walked to the edge of the desk. He looked
down at Goodman. "I am in the wrong place, and I want a transfer.
Wycoff wiU agree to send me to our little office in Memphis for the next
few months so I can work on the Cayhall case. Sort of a leave of absence,
with full pay of course."

"Anything else?"

"That's about it. It'll work. I'm just a lowly rookie, expendable
around here. No one will miss me. Hell, there are plenty of young
cutthroats just eager to work eighteen hours a day and bill twenty."

Goodman's face relaxed, and a warm smile appeared. He shook his

32 JOHNGRISHAM

head as if this impressed him. "You planned this, didn't you? I mean, you
picked this firm because it represented Sam Cayhall, and because it has
an office in Memphis."

Adam nodded without a smile. "Things have worked out. I didn't
know how or when this moment would arrive, but, yes, I sort of
planned it. Don't ask me what happens next."

"He'll be dead in three months, if not sooner."

"But I have to do something, Mr. Goodman. If the firm won't allow
me to handle the case, then I'll probably resign and try it on my own."

Goodman shook his head and jumped to his feet. "Don't do that, Mr.
HaU. We'll work something out. I'U need to present this to Daniel Ro-
sen, the managing partner. I think he'll approve."

"He has a horrible reputation."

"Well deserved. But I can talk to him."

"He'll do it if you and WycojBf recommend it, won't he?"

"Of course. Are you hungry?" Goodman was reaching for his jacket.

"A Httle."

"Let's go out for a sandwich."

THE LUNCH CROWD at the corner deH had not arrived. The partner
and the rookie took a small table in the firont window overlooking the
sidewalk. Traffic was slow and hundreds of pedestrians scurried along,
just a few feet away. The waiter deHvered a greasy Reuben for Goodman
and a bowl of chicken soup for Adam.

"How many inmates are on death row in Mississippi?" Goodman
asked.

"Forty-eight, as of last month. Twenty-five black, twenty-three white.
The last execution was two years ago, Willie Parris. Sam CayhaU will
probably be next, barring a small miracle."

Goodman chewed quickly on a large bite. He wiped his mouth with
the paper napkin. "A large miracle, I would say. There's not much left to
do legally."

"There are the usual assortment of last ditch motions."

"Let's save the strategy talks for later. I don't suppose you've ever been
to Parchman."

"No. Since I learned the truth, I've been tempted to return to Missis-
sippi, but it hasn't happened."

"It's a massive farm in the middle of the Mississippi Delta, not too far
fiom Greenville, ironically. Something like seventeen thousand acres.
Probably the hottest place in the world. It sits on Highway 49, just like a
little hamlet off to the west. Lots of buildings and houses. The front part
is all administration, and it's not enclosed by fencing. There are about

THECHAMBER 33

thirty different camps scattered around the farm, all fenced and secured.
Each camp is completely separate. Some are miles apart. You drive past
various camps, aU enclosed by chain link and barbed wire, aU with hun-
dreds of prisoners hanging around, doing nothing. They wear different
colors, depending on their classification. It seemed as if they were aU
young black kids, just loitering about, some playing basketball, some just
sitting on the porches of the buildings. An occasional white face. You
drive in your car, alone and very slowly, down a gravel road, past the
camps and the barbed wire until you come to a seemingly innocuous
Htde building with a flat roof It has tall fences around it with guards
watching from the towers. It's a fairly modern faciHty. It has an official
name of some sort, but everyone refers to it simply as the Row."

"Sounds like a wonderful place."

"I thought it would be a dungeon, you know, dark and cold with
water dripping from above. But it's just a Httle flat building out in the
middle of a cotton field. Actually, it's not as bad as death rows in other
states."

"I'd like to see the Row."

"You're not ready to see it. It's a horrible place filled with depressing
people waiting to die. I was sixty years old before 1 saw it, and I didn't
sleep for a week afterward." He took a sip of coffee. "I can't imagine
how you'U feel when you go there. The Row is bad enough when
you're representing a complete stranger."

"He is a complete stranger."

"How do you intend to tell him — "

"I don't know. I'll think of something. I'm sure it'll just happen."

Goodman shook his head. "This is bizarre."

"The whole family is bizarre."

"I remember now that Sam had two children, seems like one is a
daughter. It's been a long time. Tyner did most of the work, you know."

"His daughter is my aunt, Lee Cayhall Booth, but she tries to forget
her maiden name. She married into old Memphis money. Her husband
owns a bank or two, and they tell no one about her father."

"Where's your mother?"

"Portland. She remarried a few years ago, and we talk about twice a
year. Dysfunctional would be a mild term."

"How'd you afford Pepperdine?"

"Life insurance. My father had trouble keeping a job, but he was wise
enough to carry life insurance. The waiting period had expired years
before he killed himself"

"Sam never talked about his family."

"And his family never talks about him. His wife, my grandmother,

34 JOHNGRISHAM

died a few years before he was convicted. I didn't know this, of course.
Most of my genealogical research has been extracted from my mother,
who's done a great job of forgetting the past. I don't know how it works
in normal families, Mr. Goodman, but my family seldom gets together,
and when two or more of us happen to meet the last thing we discuss is
the past. There are many dark secrets."

Goodman was nibbling on a chip and listening closely. "You men-
tioned a sister."

"Yes, I have a sister. Carmen. She's twenty-three, a bright and beauti-
ful girl, in graduate school at Berkeley. She was born in L.A., so she
didn't go through the name change like the rest of us. We keep in
touch."

"She knows?"

"Yes, she knows. My aunt Lee told me first, just after my father's
funeral, then, typically, my mother asked me to tell Carmen. She was
only fourteen at the time. She's never expressed any interest in Sam
Cayhall. Frankly, the rest of the family wishes he would quietly just go
away."

"They're about to get their wish."

"But it won't be quietly, will it, Mr. Goodman?"

"No. It never is. For one brief but terrible moment, Sam Cayhall will
be the most talked about man in the country. We'll see the same old
footage from the bomb blast, and the trials with the Klan marching
around the courthouses. The same old debate about the death penalty
will erupt. The press will descend upon Parchman. Then, they'll kill
him, and two days later it'll all be forgotten. Happens every time."

Adam stirred his soup and carefully picked out a sliver of chicken. He
examined it for a second, then returned it to the broth. He was not
hungry. Goodman finished another chip, and touched the corners of his
mouth with the napkin.

"I don't suppose, Mr. Hall, that you're thinking you can keep this
quiet."

"I had given it some thought."

"Forget it."

"My mother begged me not to do it. My sister wouldn't discuss it.
And my aunt in Memphis is rigid with the remote possibility that we'll
all be identified as Cayhalls and forever ruined."

"The possibility is not remote. When the press finishes with you,
they'll have old black-and-whites of you sitting on your granddaddy's
knee. It'll make great print, Mr. HaU. Just think of it. The forgotten
grandson charging in at the last moment, making a heroic effort to save
his wretched old grandfather as the clock ticks down."

THECHAMBER 35

"I sort of like it myself."

"Not bad, really. It'll bring a lot of attention to our beloved little law
firm."

"Which brings up another unpleasant issue."

"I don't think so. There are no cowards at Kravitz & Bane, Adam. We
have survived and prospered in the rough and tumble world of Chicago
law. We're known as the meanest bastards in town. We have the thickest
skins. Don't worry about the firm."

"So you'U agree to it."

Goodman placed his napkin on the table and took another sip of
coffee. "Oh, it's a wonderful idea, assuming your gramps will agree to it.
If you can sign him up, or re-sign him I should say, then we're back in
business. You'll be the front man. We can feed you what you need from
up here. I'U always be in your shadow. It'U work. Then, they'll kill him
and you'll never get over it. I've watched three of my clients die, Mr.
HaU, including one in Mississippi. You'll never be the same."

Adam nodded and smiled and looked at the pedestrians on the side-
walk.

Goodman continued. "We'll be around to support you when they kill
him. You won't have to bear it alone."

"It's not hopeless, is it?"

"Almost. We'll talk strategy later. First, I'll meet with Daniel Rosen.
He'll probably want a long conference with you. Second, you'll have to
see Sam and have a little reunion, so to speak. That's the hard part.
Third, if he agrees to it, then we'll get to work."

"Thanks."

"Don't thank me, Adam. I doubt if we'll be on speaking terms when
this is over."

"Thanks anyway."

FIVE

THE MEETING was organized quickly. E. Garner Goodman
made the first phone call, and within an hour the necessary
participants had been summoned. Within four hours they were
present in a small, seldom used conference room next to Daniel Rosen's
office. It was Rosen's turf, and this disturbed Adam more than a little.

By legend, Daniel Rosen was a monster, though two heart attacks had
knocked off some of the edge and mellowed him a bit. For thirty years
he had been a ruthless litigator, the meanest, nastiest, and without a
doubt one of the most effective courtroom brawlers in Chicago. Before
the heart attacks, he was known for his brutal work schedule — ninety-
hour weeks, midnight orgies of work with clerks and paralegals digging
and fetching. Several wives had left him. As many as four secretaries at a
time labored furiously to keep pace. Daniel Rosen had been the heart
and soul of Kravitz & Bane, but no longer. His doctor restricted him to
fifty hours a week, in the office, and prohibited any trial work.

Now, Rosen, at the age of sixty-five and getting heavy, had been
unanimously selected by his beloved colleagues to graze the gentler pas-
tures of law office management. He had the responsibiHty of overseeing
the rather cumbersome bureaucracy that ran Kravitz & Bane. It was an
honor, the other partners had explained feebly when they bestowed it
upon him.

So far the honor had been a disaster. Banished from the battlefield he
desperately loved and needed, Rosen went about the business of manag-
ing the firm in a manner very similar to the preparation of an expensive
lawsuit. He cross-examined secretaries and clerks over the most trivial of

THECHAMBER 37

matters. He confronted other partners and harangued them for hours
over vague issues of firm poHcy. Confined to the prison of his office, he
called for young associates to come visit him, then picked fights to gauge
their mettle under pressure.

He dehberately took the seat directly across the small conference table
from Adam, and held a thin file as if it possessed a deadly secret.
E. Garner Goodman sat low in the seat next to Adam, twiddling his bow
tie and scratching his beard. When he telephoned Rosen with Adam's
request, and broke the news of Adam's lineage, Rosen had reacted with
predictable foolishness.

Emmitt Wycoff stood at one end of the room with a matchbox-sized
cellular phone stuck to his ear. He was almost fifty, looked much older,
and lived each day in a fixed state of panic and telephones.

Rosen carefully opened the file in front of Adam and removed a
yellow legal pad. "Why didn't you tell us about your grandfather when
we interviewed you last year?" he began with clipped words and a fierce
stare.

"Because you didn't ask me," Adam answered. Goodman had advised
him the meeting might get rough, but he and Wycoff would prevail.

"Don't be a wise ass," Rosen growled.

"Come on, Daniel," Goodman said, and rolled his eyes at Wycoff
who shook his head and glanced at the ceiling.

"You don't think, Mr. HaU, that you should' ve informed us that you
were related to one of our clients? Certainly you believe we have a right
to know this, don't you, Mr. Hall?" His mocking tone was one usually
reserved for witnesses who were lying and trapped.

"You guys asked me about everything else," Adam replied, very much
under control. "Remember the security check? The fingerprints? There
was even talk of a polygraph."

"Yes, Mr. Hall, but you knew things we didn't. And your grandfather
was a client of this firm when you appHed for employment, and you
damned sure should' ve told us." Rosen's voice was rich, and moved
high and low with the dramatic flair of a fine actor. His eyes never left
Adam.

"Not your typical grandfather," Adam said quietly.

"He's still your grandfather, and you knew he was a client when you
applied for a job here."

"Then 1 apologize," Adam said. "This firm has thousands of clients,
all well heeled and paying through the nose for our services. I never
dreamed one insignificant litde pro bono case would cause any grief"

"You're deceitful, Mr. Hall. You deliberately selected this firm be-

38 JOHNGRISHAM

cause it, at the time, represented your grandfather. And now, suddenly,
here you are begging for the file. It puts us in an awkward position."

"What awkward position?" Emmitt Wycoff asked, folding the phone
and stuflfing it in a pocket. "Look, Daniel, we're talking about a man on
death row. He needs a lawyer, dammit!"

"His ow^n grandson?" Rosen asked.

"Who cares if it's his own grandson? The man has one foot in the
grave, and he needs a lawyer."

"He fired us, remember?" Rosen shot back.

"Yeah, and he can always rehire us. It's worth a try. Lighten up."

"Listen, Emmitt, it's my job to worry about the image of this firm,
and the idea of sending one of our new associates down to Mississippi to
have his ass kicked and his cHent executed does not appeal to me.
Frankly, I think Mr. HaU should be terminated by Kravitz & Bane."

"Oh wonderful, Daniel," Wycoff said. "Typical hard-nose response to
a dehcate issue. Then who'U represent CayhaU? Think about him for a
moment. The man needs a lawyer! Adam may be his only chance."

"God help him," Rosen mumbled.

E. Garner Goodman decided to speak. He locked his hands together
on the table and glared at Rosen. "The image of this firm? Do you
honestly think we're viewed as a bunch of underpaid social workers
dedicated to helping people?"

"Or how about a bunch of nuns working in the projects?" Wycoff
added helpfully, with a sneer.

"How could this possibly hurt the image of our firm?" Goodman
asked.

The concept of retreat had never entered Rosen's mind. "Very simple.
Garner. We do not send our rookies to death row. We may abuse them,
try to kill them, expect them to w^ork twenty hours a day, but we do not
send them into battle until they are ready. You know how dense death
penalty litigation is. Hell, you wrote the books. How can you expect
Mr. Hall here to be effective?"

"I'll supervise everything he does," Goodman answered.

"He's really quite good," Wycoff added again. "He's memorized the
entire file, you know, Daniel."

"It'll work," Goodman said. "Trust me, Daniel, I've been through
enough of these things. I'U keep my finger on it."

"And I'U set aside a few hours to help," Wycoff added. "I'U even fly
down if necessary."

Goodman jerked and stared at Wycoff. "You! Pro bono?"

"Sure. I have a conscience."

Adam ignored the banter and stared at Daniel Rosen. Go ahead and

THECHAMBER 39

fire me, he wanted to say. Go ahead, Mr. Rosen, terminate me so I can
go bury my grandfather, then get on with the rest of my Ufe.

"And if he's executed?" Rosen asked in the direction of Goodman.

"We've lost them before, Daniel, you know that. Three, since I've run
pro bono."

"What are his chances?"

"Quite slim. Right now he's holding on by virtue of a stay granted by
the Fifth Circuit. The stay should be Hfted any day now, and a new
execution date will be set. Probably late summer."

"Not long then."

"Right. We've handled his appeals for seven years, and they've run
their course."

''Of all the people on death row, how'd we come to represent this
asshole?" Rosen demanded.

"It's a very long story, and at this moment it's completely irrelevant."

Rosen made what appeared to be serious notes on his legal pad. "You
don't think for a moment you'll keep this quiet, do you?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe hell. Just before they kill him, they'll make him a celebrity.
The media will surround him like a pack of wolves. You'll be discovered,
Mr. HaU."

"So?"

"So, it'll make great copy, Mr. Hall. Can't you see the headlines —
LONG-LOST GRANDSON RETURNS TO SAVE CRAMPS."

"Knock it off, Daniel," Goodman said.

But he continued. "The press will eat it up, don't you see, Mr. Hall?
They'U expose you and talk about how crazy your family is."

"But we love the press, don't we, Mr. Rosen?" Adam asked coolly.
"We're trial lawyers. Aren't we supposed to perform for the cameras?
You've never — "

"A very good point," Goodman interrupted. "Daniel, perhaps you
shouldn't advise this young man to ignore the press. We can tell stories
about some of your stunts."

"Yes, please, Daniel, lecture the kid about everything else, but lay off
the media crap," Wycoff said with a nasty grin. "You wrote the book."

For a brief moment, Rosen appeared to be embarrassed. Adam
watched him closely.

"I rather like the scenario myself," Goodman said, twirling his bow
tie and studying the bookshelves behind Rosen. "There's a lot to be said
for it, actually. Could be great for us poor litde pro bono folks. Think of
it. This young lawyer down there fighting like crazy to save a rather

40 JOHNGRISHAM

famous death row killer. And he's our lawyer — Kravitz & Bane. Sure
there'll be a ton of press, but what will it hurt?"

"It's a wonderful idea, if you ask me," Wycoff added just as his mini-
phone buzzed somewhere deep in a pocket. He stuck it to his jaw and
turned away from the meeting.

"What if he dies? Don't we look bad?" Rosen asked Goodman.

"He's supposed to die, okay? That's why he's on death row," Good-
man explained.

WycofF stopped his mumbHng and sHd the phone into a pocket. "I
gotta go," he said, moving toward the door, nervous now, in a hurry.
"Where are we?"

"I still don't Hke it," Rosen said.

"Daniel, Daniel, always a hard ass," Wycoff said as he stopped at the
end of the table and leaned on it with both hands. "You know it's a good
idea, you're just pissed because he didn't tell us up front."

"That's true. He deceived us, and now he's using us."

Adam took a deep breath and shook his head.

"Get a grip, Daniel. His interview was a year ago, in the past. It's
gone, man. Forget about it. We have more pressing matters at hand. He's
bright. He works very hard. Smooth on his feet. Meticulous research.
We're lucky to have him. So his family's messed up. Surely we're not
going to terminate every lawyer here with a dysfunctional family."
Wycoff grinned at Adam. "Plus, all the secretaries think he's cute. I say
we send him south for a few months, then get him back here as soon as
possible. I need him. Gotta run." He disappeared and closed the door
behind him.

The room was silent as Rosen scribbled on his pad, then gave it up
and closed the file. Adam almost felt sorry for him. Here was this great
warrior, the legendary Charlie Hustle of Chicago law, a great barrister
who for thirty years swayed juries and terrified opponents and intimi-
dated judges, now sitting here as a pencil pusher, trying desperately to
agonize over the question of assigning a rookie to a pro bono project.
Adam saw the humor, the irony, and the pity.

"I'll agree to it, Mr. Hall," Rosen said with much drama in his low
voice, almost a whisper, as if terribly frustrated by all this. "But I promise
you this: when the CayhaU matter is over, and you return to Chicago, I'U
recommend your termination from Kravitz & Bane."

"Probably won't be necessary," Adam said quickly.

"You presented yourself to us under false pretenses," Rosen contin-
ued.

"I said I was sorry. Won't happen again."

"Plus, you're a smart ass."

THECHAMBER 41

"So are you, Mr. Rosen. Show me a trial lawyer who's not a smart
ass."

"Real cute. Enjoy the Cayhall case, Mr. Hall, because it'll be your last
bit of work for this firm."

"You want me to enjoy an execution?"

"Relax, Daniel," Goodman said softly. "Just relax. No one's getting
fired around here."

Rosen pointed an angry finger at Goodman. "I swear I'll recommend
his termination."

"Fine. All you can do is recommend, Daniel. I'll take it to the com-
mittee, and we'll just have a huge brawl. Okay?"

"I can't wait," Rosen snarled as he jumped to his feet. "I'll start
lobbying now. I'll have my votes by the end of the week. Good day!" He
stormed from the room and slammed the door.

They sat in silence next to each other, just staring across the table over
the backs of the empty chairs to the rows of thick law books lined neatly
on the wall, listening to the echo of the slamming door.

"Thanks," Adam finally said.

"He's not a bad guy, really," Goodman said.

"Channing. A real prince."

"I've known him a long time. He's suffering now, really frustrated
and depressed. We're not sure what to do with him."

"What about retirement?"

"It's been considered, but no partner has ever been forced into retire-
ment. For obvious reasons, it's a precedent we'd like to avoid."

"Is he serious about firing me?"

"Don't worry, Adam. It won't happen. I promise. You were wrong in
not disclosing it, but it's a minor sin. And a perfectly understandable one.
You're young, scared, naive, and you want to help. Don't worry about
Rosen. I doubt if he'll be in this position three months from now."

"Deep down, I think he adores me."

"It's quite obvious."

Adam took a deep breath and walked around the table. Goodman
uncapped his pen and began making notes. "There's not much time,
Adam," he said.

"I know."

"When can you leave?"

"Tomorrow. I'll pack tonight. It's a ten-hour drive."

"The file weighs a hundred pounds. It's down in printing right now.
I'll ship it tomorrow."

"Tell me about our office in Memphis."

"I talked to them about an hour ago. Managing partner is Baker

42 JOHNGRISHAM

Cooley, and he's expecting you. They'll have a small oflfice and a secre-
tary for you, and they'll help if they can. They're not much when it
comes to Htigation."

"How many la'wyers?"

"Twelve. It's a little boutique firm we sw^allowed ten years ago, and no
one remembers exactly why. Good boys, though. Good lawyers. It's the
remnants of an old firm that prospered with the cotton and grain traders
down there, and I think that's the connection to Chicago. Anyway, it
looks nice on the letterhead. Have you been to Memphis?"

"I was born there, remember?"

"Oh yes."

"I've been once. I visited my aunt there a few years ago."

"It's an old river town, pretty laid back. You'll enjoy it."

Adam sat across the table from Goodman. "How can I possibly enjoy
the next few months?"

"Good point. You should go to the Row as quickly as possible."

"I'll be there the day after tomorrow."

"Good. I'll call the warden. His name is Phillip Naifeh, Lebanese
oddly enough. There are quite a few of them in the Mississippi Delta.
Anyway, he's an old friend, and I'll teU him you're coming."

"The warden is your friend?"

"Yes. We go back several years, to Maynard Tole, a nasty little boy
who was my first casualty in this war. He was executed in 1986, I
believe, and the warden and I became friends. He's opposed to the death
penalty, if you can believe it."

"I don't beheve it."

"He hates executions. You're about to learn something, Adam — the
death penalty may be very popular in our country, but the people who
are forced to impose it are not supporters. You're about to meet these
people: the guards who get close to the inmates; the administrators who
must plan for an efricient killing; the prison employees who rehearse for
a month beforehand. It's a strange little corner of the world, and a very
depressing one."

"I can't wait."

"I'U talk to the warden, and get permission for the visit. They'U usu-
ally give you a couple of hours. Of course, it may take five minutes if
Sam doesn't want a lawyer."

"He'll talk to me, don't you think?"

"I beheve so. I cannot imagine how the man wiU react, but he'll talk.
It may take a couple of visits to sign him up, but you can do it."

"When did you last see him?"

"Couple of years ago. Wallace Tyner and I went down. You'll need to

THECHAMBER 43

touch base with Tyner. He was the point man on this case for the past six
years."

Adam nodded and moved to the next thought. He'd been pickmg
Tyner's brain for the past nine months.

"What do we file first?"

"We'U talk about it later. Tyner and I are meeting early in the morn-
ing to review the case. Everything's on hold, though, until we hear from
you. We can't move if we don't represent him."

Adam was thinking of the newspaper photos, the black and whites
from 1967 when Sam was arrested, and the magazine photos, in color,
from the third trial in 1981, and the footage he'd pieced together into a
thirty-minute video about Sam Cayhall. "What does he look like?"

Goodman left his pen on the table and fiddled with his bow tie.
"Average height. Thin — but then you seldom see a fat one on the Row
— nerves and lean food. He chain-smokes, which is common because
there's not much else to do, and they're dying anyway. Some weird
brand, Montclair, I believe, in a blue pack. His hair is gray and oily, as I
recall. These guys don't get a shower every day. Sort of long in the back,
but that was two years ago. He hasn't lost much of it. Gray beard. He's
fairly wrinkled, but then he's pushing seventy. Plus, the heavy smoking.
You'll notice the white guys on the Row look worse than the black
ones. They're confined for twenty-three hours a day, so they sort of
bleach out. Real pale, fair, almost sickly-looking. Sam has blue eyes, nice
features. I suspect that at one time Sam Cayhall was a handsome feUow."

"After my father died, and I learned the truth about Sam, 1 had a lot
of questions for my mother. She didn't have many answers, but she did
teU me once that there was little physical resemblance between Sam and
my father."

"Nor between you and Sam, if that's what you're getting at."

"Yeah, I guess."

"He hasn't seen you since you were a toddler, Adam. He will not
recognize you. It won't be that easy. You'll have to tell him."

Adam stared blankly at the table. "You're right. What wiU he say?"

"Beats me. I expect he'U be too shocked to say much. But he's a very
intelligent man, not educated, but weU read and articulate. He'll think of
something to say. It may take a few minutes."

"You sound as if you almost hke him."

"I don't. He's a horrible racist and bigot, and he's shown no remorse
for his actions."

"You're convinced he's guilty."

Goodman grunted and smiled to himself, then thought of a response.
Three trials had been held to determine the guilt or innocence of Sam

44 JOHNGRISHAM

Cayhall. For nine years now the case had been batted around the appel-
late courts and reviewed by many judges. Countless newspaper and mag-
azine articles had investigated the bombing and those behind it. "The
jury thought so. I guess that's all that matters."

"But what about you? What do you think?"

"You've read the file, Adam. You've researched the case for a long
time. There's no doubt Sam took part in the bombing."

"But?"

"There are a lot of buts. There always are."

"He had no history of handling explosives."

"True. But he was a Klan terrorist, and they were bombing Hke heU.
Sam gets arrested, and the bombing stops."

"But in one of the bombings before Kramer, a witness claims he saw
two people in the green Pontiac."

"True. But the witness was not allowed to testify at trial. And the
witness had just left a bar at three in the morning."

"But another witness, a truck driver, claims he saw Sam and another
man talking in a coffee shop in Cleveland a few hours before the Kramer
bombing."

"True. But the truck driver said nothing for three years, and was not
allowed to testify at the last trial. Too remote."

"So who was Sam's accomplice?"

"I doubt if we'll ever know. Keep in mind, Adam, this is a man who
went to trial three times, yet never testified. He said virtually nothing to
the police, very little to his defense lawyers, not a word to his juries, and
he's told us nothing new in the past seven years."

"Do you think he acted alone?"

"No. He had help. Sam's carrying dark secrets, Adam. He'U never
tell. He took an oath as a Klansman, and he has this really warped,
romantic notion of a sacred vow he can never violate. His father was a
Klansman too, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Don't remind me."

"Sorry. Anyway, it's too late in the game to fish around for new
evidence. If he in fact had an accomplice, he should've talked long ago.
Maybe he should've talked to the FBI. Maybe he should've cut a deal
with the district attorney. I don't know, but when you're indicted on
tv^o counts of capital murder and facing death, you start talking. You
talk, Adam. You save your ass and let your buddy worry about his."

"And if there was no accomplice?"

"There was." Goodman took his pen and wrote a name on a piece of
paper. He slid it across the table to Adam, who looked at it and said,
"Wyn Lettner. The name is familiar."

THECHAMBER 45

"Lettner was the FBI agent in charge of the Kramer case. He's now
retired and Hving on a trout river in the Ozarks. He loves to tell war
stories about the Klan and the civil rights days in Mississippi."

"And he'll talk to me?"

"Oh sure. He's a big beer drinker, and he gets about half loaded and
tells these incredible stories. He won't divulge anything confidential, but
he knows more about the Kramer bombing than anyone. I've always
suspected he knows more than he's told."

Adam folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. He glanced at his
watch. It was almost 6 p.m. "I need to run. I have to pack and all."

"I'll ship the file down tomorrow. You need to call me as soon as you
talk to Sam."

"I will. Can I say something?"

"Sure."

"On behalf of my family, such as it is — my mother who refuses to
discuss Sam; my sister who only whispers his name; my aunt in Memphis
who has disowned the name Cayhall — and on behalf of my late father, I
would like to say thanks to you and to this firm for what you've done. I
admire you greatly."

"You're welcome. And I admire you. Now get your ass down to
Mississippi."

SIX

THE APARTMENT was a one-bedroom loft somewhere above
the third floor of a turn-of-the-century warehouse just off the
Loop, in a section of do"wntown known for crime but said to be
safe until dark. The warehouse had been purchased in the mid-eighties
by an S&L swinger who spent a bundle sanitizing and modernizing. He
chopped it into sixty units, hired a slick realtor, and marketed it as
yuppie starter condos. He made money as the place filled overnight with
eager young bankers and brokers.

Adam hated the place. He had three weeks left on a six-month lease,
but there was no place to go. He would be forced to renew for another
six months because Kravitz & Bane expected eighteen hours a day, and
there' d been no time to search for another apartment.

Nor had there been much time to purchase furniture, evidently. A
fine leather sofa without arms of any kind sat alone on the wooden floor
and faced an ancient brick wall. Two bean bags — ^yellow and blue — were
nearby in the urdikely event a crowd materiaHzed. To the left was a tiny
kitchen area with a snack bar and three wicker stools, and to the right of
the sofa was the bedroom with the unmade bed and clothes on the floor.
Seven hundred square feet, for thirteen hundred bucks a month. Adam's
salary, as a blue chip prospect nine months earHer, had begun at sixty
thousand a year, and was now at sixty-two. From his gross pay of sHghtly
over five thousand a month, fifteen hundred was withheld for state and
federal income taxes. Another six hundred never reached his fingers but
went instead into a Kravitz & Bane retirement fimd guaranteed to relieve
the pressure at age fifty-five, if they didn't kill him first. After rent,

THECHAMBER 47

Utilities, four hundred a month for a leased Saab, and incidentals such as
frozen food and some nice clothes, Adam found himself with about
seven hundred dollars to play with. Some of this remainder was spent on
women, but the ones he knew were also fresh from college with new
jobs and new credit cards and generally insistent on paying their own
way. This was fine with Adam. Thanks to his father's faith in life insur-
ance, he had no student loans. Even though there were things he wanted
to buy, he doggedly plowed five hundred a month into mutual funds.
With no immediate prospect of a wife and family, his goal was to work
hard, save hard, and retire at forty.

Against the brick wall was an aluininum table with a television on it.
Adam sat on the sofa, nude except for boxer shorts, holding the remote
control. But for the colorless radiation from the screen, the loft was dark.
It was after midnight. The video was one he'd pieced together over the
years — Tfie Adventures of a Klan Bomber, he called it. It started with a
brief news report filed by a local crew in Jackson, Mississippi, on March
3, 1967, the morning after a synagogue was leveled by a bomb blast. It
was the fourth known attack against Jewish targets in the past two
months, the reporter said as a backhoe roared behind her with a bucket
full of debris. The FBI had few clues, she said, and even fewer words for
the press. The Klan's campaign of terror continues, she declared gravely,
and signed off.

The Kramer bombing was next, and the story started with sirens
screaming and police pushing people away from the scene. A local re-
porter and his cameraman were on the spot quickly enough to capture
the initial bedlam. People were seen running to the remains of Marvin's
office. A heavy cloud of gray dust hung above the small oak trees on
the tront lawn. The trees were battered and leafless, but standing. The
cloud was still and showed no signs of dissipating. Off camera, voices
yelled about a fire, and the camera rocked along and stopped in front of
the building next door where thick smoke poured from a damaged wall.
The reporter, breathless and panting into the microphone, jabbered in-
coherently about the entire shocking scene. He pointed over here, then
over there as the camera jerked in belated response. The police pushed
him away, but he was too excited to care. Glorious pandemonium had
erupted in the sleepy town of Greenville, and this was his grand mo-
ment.

Thirty minutes later, from a different angle, his voice was somewhat
calmer as he described the frantic removal of Marvin Kramer from the
rubble. The pohce extended their barricades and inched the crowd
backward as the fire and rescue people lifted his body and worked the
stretcher through the wreckage. The camera followed the ambulance as

4b JOHNGRISHAM

it sped away. Then, an hour later and from still another angle, the re-
porter was quite composed and somber as the two stretchers with the
covered little bodies were deHcately handled by the firemen.

The video cut from the footage of the bombing scene to the firont of
the jail, and for the first time there was a gHmpse of Sam Cayhall. He was
handcuffed and ushered quickly into a waiting car.

As always, Adam pushed a button and replayed the brief scene with
the shot of Sam. It was 1967, twenty-three years ago. Sam was forty-six
years old. His hair was dark and cut close, the fashion of the times. There
was a small bandage under his left eye, away from the camera. He walked
quickly, stride for stride with the deputies because people were watching
and taking pictures and yelling questions. He turned only once to their
voices, and, as always, Adam froze the tape and stared for the millionth
time into the face of his grandfather. The picture was black and white
and not clear, but their eyes always met.

Nineteen sixty-seven. If Sam was forty-six, then Eddie was twenty-
four, and Adam was almost three. He was known as Alan then. Alan
CayhaU, soon to be a resident of a distant state where a judge would sign
a decree giving him a new name. He had often watched this video and
wondered where he was at the precise moment the Kramer boys were
kiUed: 7:46 a.m., April 21, 1967. His family Hved at that time in a small
house in the town of Clanton, and he was probably stiU asleep not far
from his mother's watch. He was almost three, and the Kramer twins
were only five.

The video continued with more quick shots of Sam being led to and
from various cars, jails, and courthouses. He was always handcuffed, and
he developed the habit of staring at the ground just a few feet in front of
him. His face bore no expression. He never looked at the reporters,
never acknowledged their inquiries, never said a word. He moved
quickly, darting out of doors and into waiting cars.

The spectacle of his first two trials was amply recorded by daily televi-
sion news reports. Over the years, Adam had been able to retrieve most
of the footage, and had carefully edited the material. There was the loud
and blustering face of Clovis Brazelton, Sam's lawyer, holding forth for
the press at every opportunity. But the cHps of Brazelton had been
edited quite heavily, with time. Adam despised the man. There were
clear, sweeping shots of the courthouse lawns, with the crowds of silent
onlookers, and the heavily armed state police, and the robed Klansmen
with their coneheads and sinister masks. There were brief glimpses of
Sam, always in a hurry, always shielding himself from the cameras by
ducking along behind a beefy deputy. After the second trial and the
second hung jury, Marvin Kramer stopped his wheelchair on the side-

THECHAMBER 49

walk in front of the Wilson County Courthouse, and with tears in his
eyes bitterly condemned Sam Cayhall and the Ku Klux Klan and the
hidebound justice system in Mississippi. As the cameras roUed, a pitiful
incident unfolded. Marvin suddenly spotted two Klansmen in white
robes not far away, and began screaming at them. One of them yelled
back, but his reply was lost in the heat of the moment. Adam had tried
everything to retrieve the Klansman's words from the air, but with no
luck. The reply would be forever unintelligible. A couple of years earlier,
while in law school at Michigan, Adam had found one of the local
reporters who was standing there at the moment, holding a microphone
not far from Marvin's face. According to the reporter, the reply from
across the lawn had something to do with their desire to blow off the rest
of Marvin's Umbs. Something this crude and cruel appeared to be true
because Marvin went berserk. He screamed obscenities at the Kluckers,
who were easing away, and he spun the metal wheels of his chair, lung-
ing in their direction. He was yeUing and cursing and crying. His wife
and a few friends tried to restrain him, but he broke free, his hands
furiously working the wheels. He rolled about twenty feet, with his wife
in chase, with the cameras recording it all, until the sidewalk ended and
the grass began. The wheelchair flipped, and Marvin sprawled onto the
lawn. The quilt around his amputated legs flung free as he rolled hard
next to a tree. His wife and friends were on him immediately, and for a
moment or two he disappeared into a small huddle on the ground. But
he could still be heard. As the camera backed away and shot quickly at
the two Klansmen, one doubled over with laughter and one frozen in
place, an odd waiUng erupted from the small crowd on the ground.
Marvin was moaning, but in the shrill, high-pitched howl of a wounded
madman. It was a sick sound, and after a few miserable seconds of it the
video cut to the next scene.

Adam had tears in his eyes the first time he watched Marvin roU on
the ground, howHng and groaning, and though the images and sounds
stiU tightened his throat, he had stopped crying long ago. This video was
his creation. No one had seen it but him. And he'd watched it so many
times that tears were no longer possible.

Technology improved immensely from 1968 to 1981, and the footage
from Sam's third and last trial was much sharper and clearer. It was
February of 1981, in a pretty little town with a busy square and a quaint
courthouse of red brick. The air was bitterly cold, and perhaps this kept
away the crowds of onlookers and demonstrators. One report from the
first day of the trial had a brief shot of three behooded Klansmen hud-
dled around a portable heater, rubbing their hands and looking more Uke

50 JOHNGRISHAM

Mardi Gras revelers than serious hoodlums. They were watched by a
dozen or so state troopers, all in blue jackets.

Because the civil rights movement was viewed by this time as more of
a historical event than a continuing struggle, the third trial of Sam
Cayhall attracted more media than the first two. Here was an admitted
Klansman, a real Hve terrorist firom the distant era of Freedom Pdders
and church bombings. Here was a reHc from those infamous days who'd
been tracked down and was now being hauled to justice. The analogy to
Nazi war criminals was made more than once.

Sam was not in custody during his last trial. He was a free man, and
his freedom made it even more difficult to catch him on camera. There
were quick shots of him darting into various doors of the courthouse.
Sam had aged gracefuUy in the thirteen years since trial number two.
The hair was still short and neat, but half gray now. He appeared a bit
heavier, but fit. He moved deftly along sidewalks and in and out of
automobiles as the media gave chase. One camera caught him as he
stepped from a side door of the courthouse, and Adam stopped the tape
just as Sam stared directly into the camera.

Much of the footage of the third and final trial centered around a
cocky young prosecutor named David McAllister, a handsome man who
wore dark suits and a quick smile with perfect teeth. There was Httle
doubt that David McAllister held grand political ambitions. He had the
looks, the hair, the chin, the rich voice, the smooth words, the ability to
attract cameras.

In 1989, eight short years after the trial, David McAllister was elected
governor of the State of Mississippi. To no one's surprise, the widest
planks in his platform had been more jails, longer sentences, and an
unwavering affinity for the death penalty. Adam despised him too, but
he knew that in a matter of weeks, maybe days, he would be sitting in
the governor's office in Jackson, Mississippi, begging for a pardon.

The video ended with Sam, in handcuffs once again, being led from
the courthouse after the jury condemned him to death. His face was
expressionless. His lawyer appeared to be in shock and uttered a few
unremarkable comments. The reporter signed off with the news that
Sam would be transported to death row in a matter of days.

Adam pushed the rewind button and stared at the blank screen. Be-
hind the armless sofa w^ere three cardboard boxes which contained the
rest of the story: the bulky transcripts of all three trials, which Adam had
purchased v^hile at Pepperdine; copies of the briefs and motions and
other documents firom the appellate warfare that had been raging since
Sam's conviction; a thick and carefully indexed binder with neat copies

THECHAMBER 51

of hundreds of newspaper and magazine stories about Sam's adventures
as a Klansman; death penalty materials and research; notes from law
school. He knew more about his grandfather than anyone alive.

Yet, Adam knew he had not scratched the surface. He pushed another
button, and watched the video again.

SEVEN

THE FUNERAL for Eddie Cayhall occurred less than a month
after Sam ■was sentenced to die. It was held in a small chapel in
Santa Monica, and attended by few friends and even fewer fam-
ily members. Adam sat on a front pew between his mother and sister.
They held hands and stared at the closed casket just inches away. As
always, his mother was stiff and stoic. Her eyes watered occasionally, and
she was forced to dab them with a tissue. She and Eddie had separated
and reconciled so many times the children had lost track of whose
clothes were where. Though their marriage had never been violent, it
had been lived in a continual state of divorce — threats of divorce, plans
for divorce, solemn chats with the kids about divorce, negotiations for
divorce, fiHngs for divorce, retreat from divorce, vows to avoid divorce.
During the third trial of Sam Cayhall, Adam's mother quietly moved her
possessions back into their small house, and stayed with Eddie as much as
possible. Eddie stopped going to work, and withdrew once again into his
dark little world. Adam quizzed his mother, but she explained in a few
short words that Dad was simply having another "bad time." The cur-
tains were drawn; the shades were pulled; the lights were unplugged; the
voices were lowered; the television was turned off as the family endured
another of Eddie's bad times.

Three weeks after the verdict he was dead. He shot himself in Adam's
bedroom, on a day when he knew Adam would be the first one home.
He left a note on the floor with instructions for Adam to hurry and
clean up the mess before the girls got home. Another note was found in
the kitchen.

THECHAMBER 53

Carmen was fourteen at the time, three years younger than Adam.
She had been conceived in Mississippi, but born in California after her
parents' hasty migration westward. By the time she was born, Eddie had
legally transformed his little family from Cayhalls to Halls. Alan had
become Adam. They Hved in East L.A., in a three-room apartment with
dirty sheets on the windows. Adam remembered the sheets with the
holes in them. It was the first of many temporary residences.

Next to Carmen on the front pew was a mysterious woman known as
Aunt Lee. She had just been introduced to Adam and Carmen as Eddie's
sister, his only sibling. As children they were taught not to ask questions
about family, but occasionally Lee's name would surface. She lived in
Memphis, had at one point married into a wealthy Memphis family, had
a child, and had nothing to do with Eddie because of some ancient feud.
The kids, Adam especially, had longed to meet a relative, and since Aunt
Lee was the only one ever mentioned they fantasized about her. They
wanted to meet her, but Eddie always refused because she was not a nice
person, he said. But their mother whispered that Lee was indeed a good
person, and that one day she would take them to Memphis to meet her.

Lee, instead, made the trip to California, and together they buried
Eddie Hall. She stayed for two weeks after the funeral, and became
acquainted with her niece and nephew. They loved her because she was
pretty and cool, wore blue jeans and tee shirts, and walked barefoot on
the beach. She took them shopping, and to the movies, and they went
for long walks by the shore of the ocean. She made all sorts of excuses
for not visiting sooner. She wanted to, she promised, but Eddie wouldn't
allow it. He didn't want to see her because they had fought in the past.

And it was Aunt Lee who sat with Adam on the end of a pier,
watching the sun sink into the Pacific, and finally talked of her father,
Sam Cayhall. As the waves rocked gently beneath them, Lee explained to
young Adam that he had a brief prior Hfe as a toddler in a small town in
Mississippi. She held his hand and at times patted his knee while she
unveiled the forlorn history of their family. She laid out the barest details
of Sam's Klan activities, and of the Kramer bombing, and of the trials
that eventuaUy sent him to death row in Mississippi. There were gaps in
her oral history large enough to fill libraries, but she covered the high
spots with a great deal of finesse.

For an insecure sixteen-year-old who'd just lost his father, Adam took
the whole thing rather well. He asked a few questions as a cool wind
found the coast and they huddled together, but for the most part he just
hstened, not in shock or anger, but with enormous fascination. This
awful tale was oddly satisfying. There was a family out there! Perhaps he
wasn't so abnormal after all. Perhaps there were aunts and uncles and

54 JOHNGRISHAM

cousins with lives to share and stories to tell. Perhaps there were old
homes built by real ancestors, and land and farms upon which they
settled. He had a history after all.

But Lee was wise and quick enough to recognize this interest. She
explained that the Cayhalls were a strange and secret breed who kept to
themselves and shunned outsiders. They were not friendly and warm
people who gathered for Christmas and reunited on the Fourth of July.
She lived just an hour away from Clanton, yet never saw them.

The visits to the pier at dusk became a ritual for the next week. They
would stop at the market and buy a sack of red grapes, then spit seeds
into the ocean until weU past dark. Lee told stories of her childhood in
Mississippi with her little brother Eddie. They lived on a small farm
fifteen minutes from Clanton, with ponds to fish in and ponies to ride.
Sam was a decent father; not overbearing but certainly not affectionate.
Her mother was a weak woman who disHked Sam but doted on her
children. She lost a baby, a newborn, when Lee was six and Eddie was
almost four, and she stayed in her bedroom for almost a year. Sam hired a
black woman to care for Eddie and Lee. Her mother died of cancer, and
it was the last time the Cayhalls gathered. Eddie sneaked into town for
the funeral, but tried to avoid everyone. Three years later Sam was
arrested for the last time and convicted.

Lee had little to say about her own Hfe. She left home in a hurry at the
age of eighteen, the week after high school graduation, and went straight
to Nashville to get famous as a recording artist. Somehow she met
Phelps Booth, a graduate student at Vanderbilt whose family owned
banks. They were eventually married and settled into what appeared to
be a miserable existence in Memphis. They had one son, Walt, who
evidently was quite rebellious and now Hved in Amsterdam. These were
the only details.

Adam couldn't tell if Lee had transformed herself into something
other than a Cayhall, but he suspected she had. Who could blame her?

Lee left as quietly as she had come. Without a hug or a farewell, she
eased from their home before dawn, and was gone. She called two days
later and talked to Adam and Carmen. She encouraged them to write,
which they eagerly did, but the calls and letters from her became flirther
apart. The promise of a new relationship slowly faded. Their mother
made excuses. She said Lee was a good person, but she was nonetheless a
Cayhall, and thus given to a certain amount of gloom and weirdness.
Adam was crushed.

The summer after his graduation from Pepperdine, Adam and a friend
drove across the country to Key West. They stopped in Memphis and
spent two nights with Aunt Lee. She lived alone in a spacious, modern

THECHAMBER 55

condo on a bluff overlooking the river, and they sat for hours on the
patio, just the three of them, eating homemade pizza, drinking beer,
watching barges, and talking about almost everything. Family was never
mentioned. Adam was excited about law school, and Lee was full of
questions about his future. She was vibrant and fun and talkative, the
perfect hostess and aunt. When they hugged good-bye, her eyes watered
and she begged him to come again.

Adam and his friend avoided Mississippi. They drove eastward instead,
through Tennessee and the Smoky Mountains. At one point, according
to Adam's calculations, they were within a hundred miles of Parchman
and death row and Sam Cayhall. That was four years ago, in the summer
of 1 986, and he already had collected a large box full of materials about
his grandfather. His video was almost complete.

THEIR CONVERSATION on the phone last night had been brief
Adam said he would be living in Memphis for a few months, and would
like to see her. Lee invited him to her condo, the same one on the bluff,
where she had four bedrooms and a part-time maid. He would live with
her, she insisted. Then he said he would be working in the Memphis
office, working on Sam's case as a matter of fact. There was silence on
the other end, then a weak offer to come on down anyway and they
would talk about it.

Adam pushed her doorbell at a few minutes after nine, and glanced at
his black Saab convertible. The development was nothing but a single
row of twenty units, all stacked tightly together with red-tiled roofs. A
broad brick waU with heavy iron grating along the top protected those
inside from the dangers of downtown Memphis. An armed guard
worked the only gate. If not for the view of the river on the other side,
the condos would be virtually worthless.

Lee opened the door and they pecked each other on the cheeks.
"Welcome," she said, looking at the parking lot, then locking the door
behind him. "Are you tired?"

"Not reaUy. It's a ten-hour drive but it took me twelve. I was not in a
hurry."

"Are you hungry?"

"No. I stopped a few hours ago." He followed her into the den where
they faced each other and tried to think of something appropriate to say.
She was almost fifty, and had aged a lot in the past four years. The hair
was now an equal mixture of gray and brunette, and much longer. She
puUed it tightly into a ponytail. Her soft blue eyes were red and worried,
and surrounded by more wrinkles. She wore an oversized cotton button-
down and faded jeans. Lee was still cool.

56 JOHNGRISHAM

"It's good to see you," she said with a nice smile.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Let's sit on the patio." She took his hand and led
him through the glass doors onto a wooden deck where baskets of ferns
and bougainviUea hung from wooden beams. The river was below them.
They sat in white wicker rockers. "Ho"w's Carmen?" she asked as she
poured iced tea from a ceramic pitcher.

"Fine. Still in grad school at Berkeley. We talk once a week. She's
dating a guy pretty serious."

"What's she studying now? I forget."

"Psychology. Wants to get her doctorate, then maybe teach." The tea
was strong on lemon and short on sugar. Adam sipped it slowly. The air
was still muggy and hot. "It's almost ten o'clock," he said. "Why is it so
hot?"

"Welcome to Memphis, dear. We'll roast through September."

"I couldn't stand it."

"You get used to it. Sort of We drink lots of tea and stay inside.
How's your mother?"

"StiU in Portland. Now married to a man who made a fortune in
timber. I've met him once. He's probably sixty-five, but could pass for
seventy. She's forty-seven and looks forty. A beautiful couple. They jet
here and there, St. Barts, southern France, Milan, aU the places where
the rich need to be seen. She's very happy. Her kids are grown. Eddie's
dead. Her past is tucked neatly away. And she has plenty of money. Her
life is very much in order."

"You're too harsh."

"I'm too easy. She reaUy doesn't want me around because I'm a
painful link to my father and his pathetic family."

"Your mother loves you, Adam."

"Boy that's good to hear. How do you know so much?"

"I just know."

"Didn't realize you and Mom were so close."

"We're not. Settle down, Adam. Take it easy."

"I'm sorry. I'm wired, that's all. I need a stronger drink."

"Relax. Let's have some fun while you're here."

"It's not a fun visit. Aunt Lee."

"Just caU me Lee, okay."

"Okay. I'm going to see Sam tomorrow."

She carefully placed her glass on the table, then stood and left the
patio. She returned with a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and poured a generous
shot into both glasses. She took a long drink and stared at the river in the
distance. "Why?" she finally asked.

THECHAMBER 57

"Why not? Because he's my grandfather. Because he's about to die.
Because I'm a lawyer and he needs help."

"He doesn't even know you."

"He will tomorrow."

"So you'll tell him?"

"Yes, of course I'm going to tell him. Can you believe it? I'm actually
going to tell a deep, dark, nasty Cayhall secret. What about that?"

Lee held her glass with both hands and slowly shook her head. "He'll
die," she mumbled without looking at Adam.

"Not yet. But it's nice to know you're concerned."

"I am concerned."

"Oh really. When did you last see him?"

"Don't start this, Adam. You don't understand."

"Fine. Fair enough. Explain it to me then. I'm listening. I want to
understand."

"Can't we talk about something else, dear? I'm not ready for this."

"No."

"We can talk about this later, I promise. I'm just not ready for it right
now. I thought we'd just gossip and laugh for a while."

"I'm sorry, Lee. I'm sick of gossip and secrets. I have no past because
my father conveniently erased it. I want to know about it, Lee. I want to
know how bad it really is."

"It's awful," she whispered, almost to herself

"Okay. I'm a big boy now. I can handle it. My father checked out on
me before he had to face it, so I'm afraid there's no one but you."

"Give me some time."

"There is no time. I'll be face-to-face with him tomorrow." Adam
took a long drink and wiped his lips with his sleeve. "Twenty-three years
ago, Newsweek said Sam's father was also a Klansman. Was he?"

"Yes. My grandfather."

"And several uncles and cousins as well."

"The whole damned bunch."

"Newsweek also said that it was common knowledge in Ford County
that Sam Cayhall shot and killed a black man in the early fifties, and was
never arrested for it. Never served a day in jail. Is this true?"

"Why does it matter now, Adam? That was years before you were
born."

"So it really happened?"

"Yes, it happened."

"And you knew about it?"

"I saw it."

"You saw it!" Adam closed his eyes in disbelief He breathed heavily

58 JOHNGRISHAM

and sunk lower into the rocker. The horn from a tugboat caught his
attention, and he followed it downriver until it passed under a bridge.
The bourbon was beginning to soothe.

"Let's talk about something else," Lee said softly.

"Even when I was a little kid," he said, still watching the river, "I
loved history. I was fascinated by the way people lived years ago — the
pioneers, the wagon trains, the gold rush, cowboys and Indians, the
settling of the West. There was a kid in the fourth grade who claimed his
great-great-grandfather had robbed trains and buried the money in
Mexico. He wanted to form a gang and run away to find the money. We
knew he was lying, but it was great fun playing along. I often wondered
about my ancestors, and I remember being puzzled because I didn't seem
to have any."

"What would Eddie say?"

"He told me they were all dead; said more time is wasted on family
history than anything else. Every time I asked questions about my family,
Mother would pull me aside and tell me to stop because it might upset
him and he might go off into one of his dark moods and stay in his
bedroom for a month. I spent most of my childhood walking on egg-
shells around my father. As I grew older, I began to realize he was a very
strange man, very unhappy, but I never dreamed he would kill himself"

She rattled her ice and took the last sip. "There's a lot to it, Adam."

"So when will you tell me?"

Lee gently took the pitcher and refilled their glasses. Adam poured
bourbon into both. Several minutes passed as they sipped and watched
the traffic on Riverside Drive.

"Have you been to death row?" he finally asked, still staring at the
lights along the river.

"No," she said, barely audible.

"He's been there for almost ten years, and you've never gone to see
him?"

"I wrote him a letter once, shortly after his last trial. Six months later
he wrote me back and told me not to come. Said he didn't want me to
see him on death row. I wrote him two more letters, neither of which he
answered."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I'm carrying a lot of guilt, Adam, and it's not easy to
talk about. Just give me some time."

"I may be in Memphis for a while."

"I want you to stay here. We'll need each other." She hesitated and
stirred the drink with an index finger. "I mean, he is going to die, isn't
he?"

THECHAMBER 59

"It's likely."

"When?"

"Two or three months. His appeals are virtually exhausted. There's
not much left."

"Then why are you getting involved?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's because we have a fighting chance. I'll
work my tail off for the next few months and pray for a miracle."

"I'll be praying too," she said as she took another sip.

"Can we talk about something?" he asked, suddenly looking at her.

"Sure."

"Do you live here alone? 1 mean, it's a fair question if I'm going to be
staying here."

"I live alone. My husband lives in our house in the country."

"Does he live alone? Just curious."

"Sometimes. He likes young girls, early twenties, usually employees at
his banks. I'm expected to call before I go to the house. And he's
expected to call before he comes here."

"That's nice and convenient. Who negotiated that agreement?"

"We just sort of worked it out over time. We haven't lived together in
fifteen years."

"Some marriage."

"It works quite well, actuaUy. I take his money, and I ask no questions
about his private life. We do the required little social numbers together,
and he's happy."

"Are you happy?"

"Most of the time."

"If he cheats, why don't you sue for divorce and clean him out. I'll
represent you."

"A divorce wouldn't work. Phelps comes from a very proper, stiff old
family of miserably rich people. Old Memphis society. Some o{ these
families have intermarried for decades. In fact, Phelps was expected to
marry a fifth cousin, but instead he fell under my charms. His family was
viciously opposed to it, and a divorce now would be a painful admission
that his family was right. Plus, these people are proud bluebloods, and a
nasty divorce would humiliate them. I love the independence of taking
his money and living as I choose."

"Did you ever love him?"

"Of course. We were madly in love when we married. We eloped, by
the way. It was 1963, and the idea of a large wedding with his family of
aristocrats and my family o{ rednecks was not appealing. His mother
would not speak to me, and my father was burning crosses. At that time,

60 JOHNGRISHAM

Phelps did not know my father was a Klansman, and of course I desper-
ately wanted to keep it quiet."

"Did he find out?"

"As soon as Daddy was arrested for the bombing, I told him. He in
turn told his father, and the word was spread slowly and carefully
through the Booth family. These people are quite proficient at keeping
secrets. It's the only thing they have in common with us CayhaUs."

"So only a few know you're Sam's daughter?"

"Very few. I'd hke to keep it that way."

"You're ashamed of — "

"Hell yes I'm ashamed of my father! Who wouldn't be?" Her words
were suddenly sharp and bitter. "I hope you don't have some romanti-
cized image of this poor old man suffering on death row, about to be
unjustly crucified for his sins."

"I don't think he should die."

"Neither do I. But he's damned sure killed enough people — the
Kramer twins, their father, your father, and God knows who else. He
should stay in prison for the rest of his Hfe."

"You have no sympathy for him?"

"Occasionally. If I'm having a good day and the sun is shining, then I
might think of him and remember a small pleasant event from my child-
hood. But those moments are very rare, Adam. He has caused much
misery in my life and in the lives of those around him. He taught us to
hate everybody. He was mean to our mother. His whole damned family
is mean."

"So let's just kill him then."

"I didn't say that, Adam, and you're being unfair. I think about him
all the time. I pray for him every day. I've asked these walls a million
times why and how my father became such a horrible person. Why can't
he be some nice old man right now sitting on the front porch with a
pipe and a cane, maybe a little bourbon in a glass, for his stomach, of
course? Why did my father have to be a Klansman who killed innocent
children and ruined his own family?"

"Maybe he didn't intend to kill them."

"They're dead, aren't they? The jury said he did it. They were blown
to bits and buried side by side in the same neat Httle grave. Who cares if
he intended to kill them? He was there, Adam."

"It could be very important."

Lee jumped to her feet and grabbed his hand. "Come here," she
insisted. They stepped a few feet to the edge of the patio. She pointed to
the Memphis skyHne several blocks away. "You see that fiat building

THECHAMBER 61

facing the river there. The nearest to us. Just over there, three or four
blocks away."

"Yes," he answered slowly.

"The top floor is the fifteenth, okay. Now, from the right, count
down six levels. Do you follow?"

"Yes," Adam nodded and counted obediently. The building was a
showy high-rise.

"Now, count four windows to the left. There's a Hght on. Do you see
it?"

"Yes."

"Guess who lives there."

"How would I know?"

"Ruth Kramer."

"Ruth Kramer! The mother?"

"That's her."

"Do you know her?"

"We met once, by accident. She knew I was Lee Booth, wife of the
infamous Phelps Booth, but that was all. It was a glitzy fundraiser for the
ballet or something. I've always avoided her if possible."

"This must be a small town."

"It can be tiny. If you could ask her about Sam, what would she say?"

Adam stared at the Ughts in the distance. "I don't know. I've read that
she's still bitter."

"Bitter? She lost her entire family. She's never remarried. Do you
think she cares if my father intended to kiU her children? Of course not.
She just knows they're dead, Adam, dead for twenty-three years now.
She knows they were killed by a bomb planted by my father, and if he'd
been home with his family instead of riding around at night with his
idiot buddies, Httle Josh and John would not be dead. They instead
would be twenty-eight years old, probably very well educated and mar-
ried with perhaps a baby or two for Ruth and Marvin to play with. She
doesn't care who the bomb was intended for, Adam, only that it was
placed there and it exploded. Her babies are dead. That's all that mat-
ters."

Lee stepped backward and sat in her rocker. She rattled her ice again
and took a drink. "Don't get me wrong, Adam. I'm opposed to the
death penalty. I'm probably the only fifty-year-old white woman in the
country whose father is on death row. It's barbaric, immoral, discrimi-
natory, cruel, uncivilized — I subscribe to all the above. But don't forget
the victims, okay. They have the right to want retribution. They've
earned it."

"Does Ruth Kramer want retribution?"

62 JOHNGRISHAM

"By all accounts, yes. She doesn't say much to the press anymore, but
she's active with victims groups. Years ago she was quoted as saying she
would be in the witness room when Sam Cayhall was executed."

"Not exactly a forgiving spirit."

"I don't recall my father asking for forgiveness."

Adam turned and sat on the ledge with his back to the river. He
glanced at the buildings downtown, then studied his feet. Lee took an-
other long drink.

"Well, Aunt Lee, what are we going to do?"

"Please drop the Aunt."

"Okay, Lee. I'm here. I'm not leaving. I'U visit Sam tomorrow, and
when I leave I intend to be his lawyer."

"Do you intend to keep it quiet?"

"The fact that I'm reaUy a CayhaU? I don't plan to tell anyone, but I'U
be surprised if it's a secret much longer. When it comes to death row
inmates, Sam's a famous one. The press will start some serious digging
pretty soon."

Lee folded her feet under her and stared at the river. "WiU it harm
you?" she asked softly.

"Of course not. I'm a lawyer. Lawyers defend child molesters and
assassins and drug dealers and rapists and terrorists. We are not popular
people. How can I be harmed by the fact that he's my grandfather?"

"Your firm knows?"

"I told them yesterday. They were not exactly deHghted, but they
came around. I hid it from them, actually, when they hired me, and I
was wrong to do so. But I think things are okay."

"What if he says no?"

"Then we'll be safe, won't we? No one will ever know, and you'll be
protected. I'U go back to Chicago and wait for CNN to cover the
carnival of the execution. And I'm sure I'U drive down one cool day in
the faU and put some flowers on his grave, probably look at the tomb-
stone and ask myself again why he did it and how he became such a
lowUfe and why was I born into such a wretched family, you know, the
questions we've been asking for many years. I'U invite you to come with
me. It'U be sort of a little family reunion, you know, just us CayhaUs
slithering through the cemetery with a cheap bouquet of flowers and
thick sunglasses so no one wiU discover us."

"Stop it," she said, and Adam saw the tears. They were flowing and
were almost to her chin when she wiped them with her fingers.

"I'm sorry," he said, then turned to watch another barge inch north
through the shadows of the river. "I'm sorry, Lee."

EIGHT

SO AFTER TWENTY-THREE YEARS, he was finaUy returning
to the state of his birth. He didn't particularly feel welcome, and
though he wasn't particularly afraid of anything he drove a cau-
tious fifty-five and refused to pass anyone. The road narrowed and sunk
onto the flat plain of the Mississippi Delta, and for a mile Adam watched
as a levee snaked its way to the right and finally disappeared. He eased
through the hamlet of Walls, the first town of any size along 61, and
followed the traffic south.

Through his considerable research, he knew that this highway had for
decades served as the principal conduit for hundreds of thousands of
poor Delta blacks journeying north to Memphis and St. Louis and Chi-
cago and Detroit, places where they sought jobs and decent housing. It
was in these towns and farms, these ramshackle shotgun houses and
dusty country stores and colorful juke joints along Highway 61 where
the blues was born and spread northward. The music found a home in
Memphis where it was blended with gospel and country, and together
they spawned rock and roll. He listened to an old Muddy Waters cassette
as he entered the infamous county of Tunica, said to be the poorest in
the nation.

The music did little to calm him. He had refused breakfast at Lee's,
said he wasn't hungry but in fact had a knot in his stomach. The knot
grew with each mile.

Just north of the town of Tunica, the fields grew vast and ran to the
horizon in all directions. The soybeans and cotton were knee high. A
small army of green and red tractors with plows behind them crisscrossed

64 JOHNGRISHAM

the endless neat rows of leafy foliage. Though it was not yet nine
o'clock, the weather was already hot and sticky. The ground was dry,
and clouds of dust smoldered behind each plow. An occasional crop
duster dropped from nowhere and acrobatically skimmed the tops of the
fields, then soared upward. Traffic was heavy and slow, and sometimes
forced almost to a standstill as a monstrous John Deere of some variety
inched along as if the highway were deserted.

Adam was patient. He was not expected until ten, and it wouldn't
matter if he arrived late.

At Clarksdale, he left Highway 61 and headed southeast on 49,
through the tiny settlements of Mattson and Dublin and Tutwiler,
through more soybean fields. He passed cotton gins, now idle but wait-
ing for the harvest. He passed clusters of impoverished row houses and
dirty mobile homes, all for some reason situated close to the highway.
He passed an occasional fine home, always at a distance, always sitting
majestically under heavy oaks and elms, and usually with a fenced swim-
ming pool to one side. There was no doubt who owned these fields.

A road sign declared the state penitentiary to be five miles ahead, and
Adam instinctively slowed his car. A moment later, he ran up on a large
tractor puttering casually down the road, and instead of passing he chose
to follow. The operator, an old white man with a dirty cap, motioned
for him to come around. Adam waved, and stayed behind the plow at
twenty miles per hour. There was no other traffic in sight. A random dirt
clod flung from a rear tractor tire, and landed just inches in front of the
Saab. He slowed a bit more. The operator twisted in his seat, and again
waved for Adam to come around. His mouth moved and his face was
angry, as if this were his highway and he didn't appreciate idiots follow-
ing his tractor. Adam smiled and waved again, but stayed behind him.

Minutes later, he saw the prison. There were no tall chain-link fences
along the road. There were no lines of glistening razor wire to prevent
escape. There were no watchtowers with armed guards. There were no
gangs of inmates howling at the passersby. Instead, Adam saw an en-
trance to the right and the words Mississippi state penitentiary spanning
from an arch above it. Next to the entrance were several buildings, all
facing the highway and apparently unguarded.

Adam waved once again at the tractor operator, then eased from the
highway. He took a deep breath, and studied the entrance. A female in
uniform stepped from a guardhouse under the arch, and stared at him.
Adam drove slowly to her, and lowered his window.

"Mornin'," she said. She had a gun on her hip and a clipboard in her
hand. Another guard watched from inside. "What can we do for you?"

"I'm a lawyer, here to see a client on death row," Adam said weakly,

THECHAMBER 65

very much aware of his shrill and nervous voice. Just calm down, he told
himself.

"We ain't got nobody on death row, sir."

"I'm sorry?"

"Ain't no such place as death row. We got a bunch of 'em in the
Maximum Security Unit, that's MSU for short, but you can look all over
this place and you won't fmd no death row."

"Okay."

"Name?" she said, studying the clipboard.

"Adam Hall."

"And your client?"

"Sam Cayhall." He half-expected some sort of response to this, but
the guard didn't care. She flipped a sheet, and said, "Stay right here."

The entrance became a driveway with shade trees and smaU buildings
on each side. This wasn't a prison — this was a pleasant little street in a
small town where any minute now a group of kids would appear on
bicycles and roller skates. To the right was a quaint structure v/ith a front
porch and flower beds. A sign said this was the Visitors Center, as if
souvenirs and lemonade were on sale for eager tourists. A white pickup
with three young blacks in it and Mississippi Department of Corrections
stenciled on the door passed by without slowing a bit.

Adam caught a glimpse of the guard standing behind his car. She was
writing something on the clipboard as she approached his window.
"Where'bouts in Illinois?" she asked.

"Chicago."

"Got any cameras, guns, or tape recorders?"

"No."

She reached inside and placed a card on his dash. Then she returned
to her clipboard, and said, "Got a note here that you're supposed to see
Lucas Mann."

"Who's that?"

"He's the prison attorney."

"I didn't know I was supposed to see him."

She held a piece of paper three feet from his face. "Says so right here.
Take the third left, just up there, then wind around to the back of that
red brick building." She was pointing.

"What does he want?"

She snorted and shrugged at the same time, and walked to the guard-
house shaking her head. Dumbass lawyers.

Adam gently pressed the accelerator and eased by the Visitors Center
and down the shaded drive. On both sides were neat white frame houses
where, he learned later, prison guards and other employees lived with

66 JOHNGRISHAM

their families. He followed her instructions and parked in front of an
aging brick building. Two trustees in blue prison pants with white stripes
down the legs swept the front steps. Adam avoided eye contact and went
inside.

He found the unmarked office of Lucas Mann with Httle trouble. A
secretary smiled at him, and opened another door to a large office where
Mr. Mann was standing behind his desk and talking on the phone.

"Just have a seat," the secretary whispered as she closed the door
behind him. Mann smiled and waved awkwardly as he listened to the
phone. Adam sat his briefcase in a chair and stood behind it. The office
was large and clean. Two long windows faced the highway and provided
plenty of light. On the wall to the left was a large framed photo of a
familiar face, a handsome young man with an earnest smile and strong
chin. It was David McAllister, governor of the State of Mississippi. Adam
suspected identical photos were hung in every state government office,
and also plastered in every hallway, closet, and toilet under the state's
domain.

Lucas Mann stretched the phone cord and walked to a window, his
back to the desk and Adam. He certainly didn't appear to be a lawyer.
He v^as in his mid-fifties with flowing dark gray hair which he somehow
pulled and kept situated on the back of his neck. His dress was the
hippest of fraternity chic — severely starched khaki workshirt with two
pockets and a mixed salad tie, still tied but hanging loose; top button
unbuttoned to reveal a gray cotton tee shirt; brown chinos, likewise
starched to the crunch with a perfect one-inch cuff falling just enough to
allow^ a peek at white socks; loafers shined immaculately. It was obvious
Lucas knew how to dress, and also obvious he was engaged in a different
practice of law. If he'd had a small earring in his left lobe, he would have
been the perfect aging hippie who in his later years was yielding to
conformity.

The office was neatly furnished with government hand-me-downs: a
worn wooden desk that seemed impeccably organized; three metal chairs
with vinyl cushions; a row of mismatched file cabinets along one wall.
Adam stood behind a chair and tried to calm himself Could this meet-
ing be required of all visiting attorneys? Surely not. There were five
thousand inmates in Parchman. Garner Goodman had not mentioned a
visit with Lucas Mann.

The name w^as vaguely familiar. Somewhere deep in one of his boxes
of court files and newspaper clippings he had seen the name of Lucas
Mann, and he desperately tried to remember if he was a good guy or a
bad one. What exactly was his role in death penalty litigation? Adam

THECHAMBER 67

knew for certain that the enemy was the state's Attorney General, but he
couldn't fit Lucas into the scenario.

Mann suddenly hung up the phone and shoved a hand at Adam.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Hall. Please have a seat," he said softly in a
pleasant drawl as he waved at a chair. "Thanks for stopping by."

Adam took a seat. "Sure. A pleasure to meet you," he replied ner-
vously. "What's up?"

"A couple of things. First, 1 just wanted to meet you and say hello.
I've been the attorney here for twelve years. I do most of the civil
litigation that this place spews forth, you know, all kinds of crazy litiga-
tion filed by our guests — prisoners' rights, damage suits, that kind of
stuff. We get sued every day, it seems. By statute, I also play a small role
in the death cases, and I understand you're here to visit Sam."

"That's correct."

"Has he hired you?"

"Not exactly."

"I didn't think so. This presents a small problem. You see, you're not
supposed to visit an inmate unless you actually represent him, and I
know that Sam has successfully terminated Kravitz & Bane."

"So I can't see him?" Adam asked, almost with a trace of reHef

"You're not supposed to. I had a long talk yesterday with Garner
Goodman. He and I go back a few years to the Maynard Tole execution.
Are you familiar with that one?"

"Vaguely."

"Nineteen eighty-six. It was my second execution," he said as if he'd
personally puUed the switch. He sat on the edge of his desk and looked
down at Adam. The starch crackled gently in his chinos. His right leg
swung from the desk. "I've had four, you know. Sam could be the fifth.
Anyway, Garner represented Maynard Tole, and we got to know each
other. He's a fine gentleman and fierce advocate."

"Thanks," Adam said because he could think of nothing else.

"I hate them, personally."

"You're opposed to the death penalty?"

"Most of the time. I go through stages, actually. Every time we kill
someone here I think the whole world's gone crazy. Then, invariably,
I'll review one of these cases and remember how brutal and horrible
some of these crimes were. My first execution was Teddy Doyle Meeks,
a drifter who raped, mutilated, and killed a little boy. There was not
much sadness here when he was gassed. But, hey, listen, I could tell war
stories forever. Maybe we'U have time for it later, okay?"

"Sure," Adam said without commitment. He could not envision a

68 JOHNGRISHAM

moment w^hen he wanted to hear stories about violent murderers and
their executions.

"I told Garner that I didn't think you should be permitted to visit
Sam. He listened for a while, then he explained, rather vaguely I must
say, that perhaps yours was a special situation, and that you should be
allowed at least one visit. He wouldn't say what was so special about it,
know what I mean?" Lucas rubbed his chin when he said this as if he
had almost solved the puzzle. "Our policy is rather strict, especially for
MSU. But the warden will do whatever I ask." He said this very slowly,
and the words hung in the air.

"I, uh, really need to see him," Adam said, his voice almost cracking.

"Well, he needs a lawyer. Frankly, I'm glad you're here. We've never
executed one unless his lawyer was present. There's all sorts of legal
maneuvering up to the very last minute, and I'll just feel better if Sam
has a lawyer." He walked around the desk and took a seat on the other
side. He opened a file and studied a piece of paper. Adam waited and
tried to breathe normally.

"We do a fair amount of background on our death inmates," Lucas
said, still looking at the file. The statement had the tone of a solemn
warning. "Especially when the appeals have run and the execution is
looming. Do you know anything about Sam's family?"

The knot suddenly felt Hke a basketball in Adam's stomach. He man-
aged to shrug and shake his head at the same time, as if to say he knew
nothing.

"Do you plan to talk to Sam's family?"

Again, no response, just the same inept shrug of the shoulders, very
heavy shoulders at this moment.

"I mean, normally, in these cases, there's quite a lot of contact with
the condemned man's family as the execution gets closer. You'll proba-
bly want to contact these folks. Sam has a daughter in Memphis, a Mrs.
Lee Booth. I have an address, if you want it." Lucas watched him suspi-
ciously. Adam could not move. "Don't suppose you know her, do you?"

Adam shook his head, but said nothing.

"Sam had one son, Eddie CayhaU, but the poor guy committed sui-
cide in 1981. Lived in California. Eddie left two children, a son born in
Clanton, Mississippi, on May 12, 1964, which, oddly enough, is your
birthday, according to my Martindale-Hubbell Law Directory. Says you
were born in Memphis on the same day. Eddie also left a daughter who
was born in California. These are Sam's grandchildren. I'U try and con-
tact them, if you — "

"Eddie Cayhall was my father," Adam blurted out, and he took a
deep breath. He sank lower in the chair and stared at the top of the desk.

THECHAMBER 69

His heart pounded furiously, but at least he was breathing again. His
shoulders were suddenly lighter. He even managed a very small smile.

Mann's face was expressionless. He thought for a long minute, then
said with a hint of satisfaction, "I sort of figured that." He immediately
started flipping papers as if the file possessed many other surprises.
"Sam's been a very lonely man on death row, and I've often wondered
about his family. He gets some mail, but almost none from his family.
Virtually no visitors, not that he wants any. But it's a bit unusual for such
a noted inmate to be ignored by his family. Especially a white one. I
don't pry, you understand."

"Of course not."

Lucas ignored this. "We have to make preparations for the execution,
Mr. Hall. For example, we have to know what to do with the body.
Funeral arrangements and all. That's where the family comes in. After I
talked to Garner yesterday, I asked some of our people in Jackson to
track down the family. It was really quite easy. They also checked your
paperwork, and immediately discovered that the State of Tennessee has
no record of the birth of Adam Hall on May 12, 1964. One thing sort of
led to another. It wasn't difficult."

"I'm not hiding anymore."

"When did you learn about Sam?"

"Nine years ago. My aunt, Lee Booth, told me after we buried my
father."

"Have you had any contact with Sam?"

"No."

Lucas closed the file and reclined in his squeaky chair. "So Sam has no
idea who you are or why you're here?"

"That's right."

"Wow," he whistled at the ceiling.

Adam relaxed a bit and sat up in his chair. The cat was now out ot the
bag, and had it not been for Lee and her fears of being discovered he
would have felt completely at ease. "How long can I see him today?" he
asked.

"Well, Mr. Hall—"

"Just call me Adam, okay."

"Sure, Adam, we really have two sets of rules for the Row."

"Excuse me, but I was told by a guard at the gate that there was no
death row."

"Not officially. You'll never hear the guards or other personnel refer
to it as anything but Maximum Security or MSU or Unit 17. Anyway,
when a man's time is about up on the Row we relax the rules quite a bit.
Normally, a visit with the lawyer is limited to an hour a day, but in

70 JOHNGRISHAM

Sam's case you can have all the time you need. I suspect you'll have a lot
to talk about."

"So there's no time limit?"

"No. You can stay all day if you like. We try to make things easy in
the last days. You can come and go as you please as long as there's no
security risk. I've been to death row in five other states, and, beHeve me,
we treat them the best. Hell, in Louisiana they take the poor guy out of
his unit and place him in what's called the Death House for three days
before they kill him. Talk about cruel. We don't do that. Sam will be
treated special until the big day."

"The big day?"

"Yeah. It's four weeks from today, you know? August 8." Lucas
reached for some papers on the corner of his desk, then handed them to
Adam. "This came down this morning. The Fifth Circuit lifted the stay
late yesterday afternoon. The Mississippi Supreme Court just set a new
execution date for August 8."

Adam held the papers without looking at them. "Four weeks," he
said, stunned.

"Afraid so. I took a copy of it to Sam about an hour ago, so he's in a
foul mood."

"Four weeks," Adam repeated, almost to himself He glanced at the
court's opinion. The case was styled State of Mississippi v. Sam Cayhall. "I
guess I'd better go see him, don't you think?" he said without thinking.

"Yeah. Look, Adam, I'm not one of the bad guys, okay?" Lucas
slowly eased to his feet and walked to the edge of his desk where he
gently placed his rear. He folded his arms and looked down at Adam.
"I'm just doing my job, okay. I'll be involved because I have to watch
this place and make sure things are done legally, by the book. I won't
enjoy it, but it'll get crazy and quite stressful, and everybody will be
ringing my phone — the warden, his assistants, the Attorney General's
office, the governor, you, and a hundred others. So I'll be in the middle
of it, though I don't want to. It's the most unpleasant thing about this
job. I just want you to realize that I'm here if you need me, okay? I'U
always be fair and truthful with you."

"You're assuming Sam will allow me to represent him."

"Yes. I'm assuming this."

"What are the chances of the execution taking place in four weeks?"

"Fifty-fifty. You never know what the courts will do at the last min-
ute. We'll start preparing in a week or so. We have a rather long checklist
of things to do to get ready for it."

"Sort of a blueprint for death."

"Something Hke that. Don't think we enjoy it."

THECHAMBER 71

"I guess everybody here is just doing their job, right?"

"It's the law of this state. If our society wants to kill criminals, then
someone has to do it."

Adam placed the court opinion in his briefcase and stood in front of
Lucas. "Thanks, I guess, for the hospitality."

"Don't mention it. After you visit with Sam, I'll need to know what
happened."

"I'll send you a copy of our representation agreement, if he signs it."

"That's all I need."

They shook hands and Adam headed for the door.

"One other thing," Lucas said. "When they bring Sam into the visit-
ing room, ask the guards to remove the handcuffs. I'll make sure they do.
It'll mean a lot to Sam."

"Thanks."

"Good luck."

NINE

THE TEMPERATURE had risen at least ten degrees when
Adam left the building and walked past the same two trustees
sweeping the same dirt in the same languid motions. He stopped
on the front steps, and for a moment watched a gang of inmates gather
Htter along the highway less than a hundred yards away. An armed guard
on a horse in a ditch w^atched them. Traffic zipped along without slow-
ing. Adam wondered what manner of criminals were these who were
allowed to work outside the fences and so close to a highway. No one
seemed to care about it but him.

He walked the short distance to his car, and was sweating by the time
he opened the door and started the engine. He followed the drive
through the parking lot behind Mann's office, then turned left onto the
main prison road. Again, he was passing neat Httle white homes with
flowers and trees in the front yard. What a civilized Httle community. An
arrow on a road sign pointed left to Unit 17. He turned, very slowly,
and within seconds was on a dirt road that led quickly to some serious
fencing and razor wire.

The Row at Parchman had been built in 1954, and officially labeled
the Maximum Security Unit, or simply MSU. An obligator)^' plaque on a
wall inside Listed the date, the name of the governor then, the names of
various important and long-forgotten officials who were instrumental in
its construction, and, of course, the names of the architect and contrac-
tor. It was state of the art for that period — a single-story flat roof build-
ing of red brick stretching in two long rectangles from the center.
Adam parked in the dirt lot between two other cars and stared at it.

THECHAMBER 73

No bars were visible from the outside. No guards patrolled around it. If
not for the fences and barbed wire, it could almost pass for an elemen-
tary school in the suburbs. Inside a caged yard at the end of one wing, a
solitary inmate dribbled a basketball on a grassless court and flipped it
against a crooked backboard.

The fence in front of Adam was at least twelve feet high, and crowned
at the top with thick strands of barbed wire and a menacing roU of shiny
razor wire. It ran straight and true to the corner where it joined a
watchtower where guards looked down. The fence encompassed the
Row on all four sides with remarkable symmetry, and in each corner an
identical tower stood high above with a glass-enclosed guard station at
the top. Just beyond the fence the crops started and seemed to run
forever. The Row was literally in the middle of a cotton field.

Adam stepped from his car, felt suddenly claustrophobic, and squeezed
the handle of his thin briefcase as he glared through the chain link at the
hot, flat little building where they killed people. He slowly removed his
jacket, and noticed his shirt was already spotted and sticking to his chest.
The knot in his stomach had returned with a vengeance. His first few
steps toward the guard station were slow and awkward, primarily because
his legs were unsteady and his knees were shivering. His fancy tasseled
loafers were dusty by the time he stopped under the watchtower and
looked up. A red bucket, the type one might use to wash a car, was
being lowered on a rope by an earnest woman in a uniform. "Put your
keys in the bucket," she explained efficiently, leaning over the raihng.
The barbed wire on the top of the fence was five feet below her.

Adam quickly did as she instructed. He carefully laid his keys in the
bucket where they joined a dozen other key rings. She jerked it back and
he watched it rise for a few seconds, then stop. She tied the rope some-
how, and the little red bucket hung innocently in the air. A nice breeze
would have moved it gently, but at the moment, in this stifling vacuum,
there was scarcely enough air to breathe. The winds had died years ago.

The guard was finished with him. Someone somewhere pushed a
button or pulled a lever, Adam had no idea who did it, but a humming
noise kicked in, and the first of two bulky, chain-link gates began to
slide a few feet so he could enter. He walked fifteen feet along the dirt
drive, then stopped as the first gate closed behind him. He was in the
process of learning the first basic rule of prison security — every pro-
tected entrance has either two locked doors or gates.

When the first gate stopped behind him and locked itself into place,
the second one dutifully snatched itself free and rolled along the fence.
As this was happening, a very stocky guard with arms as big as Adam's
legs appeared at the main door of the unit and began to amble along the

74 JOHNGRISHAM

brick path to the entrance. He had a hard belly and a thick neck, and he
sort of waited for Adam as Adam waited for the gates to secure every-
thing.

He eased forward an enormous black hand, and said, "Sergeant
Packer." Adam shook it and immediately noticed the shiny black cow-
boy boots on Sergeant Packer's feet.

"Adam Hall," he said, trying to manage the hand.

"Here to see Sam," Packer stated as a fact.

"Yes sir," Adam said, wondering if everyone here referred to him
simply as Sam.

"Your first visit here?" They began a slow walk toward the front of
the building.

"Yeah," Adam said, looking at the open windows along the nearest
tier. "Are all death row inmates here?" he asked.

"Yep. Got forty-seven as of today. Lost one last week."

They were almost to the main door. "Lost one?"

"Yeah. The Big Court reversed. Had to move him in with the general
population. I have to frisk you." They were at the door, and Adam
glanced around nervously to see just exactly where it was that Packer
wished to conduct the frisk.

"Just spread your legs a little," Packer said, already taking the briefcase
and placing it on the concrete. The fancy tasseled loafers were now stuck
in place. Though he was dizzy and momentarily without the use of all
his faculties, Adam could not at this horrible moment remember anyone
ever asking him to spread his legs, even just a little.

But Packer was a pro. He patted expertly around the socks, moved up
quite delicately to the knees, which were more than a little wobbly, then
around the waist in no time flat. Adam's first firisk was mercifully finished
just seconds after it started when Sergeant Packer made a rather cursory
pass under both arms as if Adam might be wearing a shoulder harness
with a small pistol inside it. Packer deftly stuck his massive right hand
into the briefcase, then handed it back to Adam. "Not a good day to see
Sam," he said.

"So I've heard," Adam replied, slinging his jadket once again over his
shoulder. He faced the iron door as if it was now time to enter the Row.

"This way," Packer mumbled as he stepped down onto the grass and
headed around the corner. Adam obediently followed along yet another
little red-brick trail until they came to a plain, nondescript door with
weeds growing beside it. The door was not marked or labeled.

"What's this?" Adam asked. He vaguely recalled Goodman's descrip-
tion of this place, but at the moment all details were fuzzy.

"Conference room." Packer produced a key and unlocked the door.

THECHAMBER 75

Adam glanced around before he entered and tried to gather his bearings.
The door was next to the central section of the unit, and it occurred to
Adam that perhaps the guards and their admmistrators didn't want the
lawyers underfoot and poking around. Thus, the outside entrance.

He took a deep breath and stepped inside. There were no other law-
yers visiting their clients, and this was particularly comforting to Adam.
This meeting could become tumultuous and perhaps emotional, and he
preferred to do it in private. At least for the moment the room was
empt\'. It was large enough for several lawyers to visit and counsel,
probably thirty feet long and twelve feet wide with a concrete floor and
bright fluorescent hghting. The wall on the far end was red brick with
three windows high at the top, just like the exterior of the unit's tiers. It
was immediately obvious that the conference room had been added as an
afterthought.

The air conditioner, a small window unit, was snarling angrily and
producing much less than it should. The room was divided neatly by a
solid wall of brick and metal; the lawyers had their side and the clients
had theirs. The partition was made of brick for the first three feet, then a
small counter provided the lawyers a place to sit their mandatory legal
pads and take their pages of mandatory notes. A bright green screen of
thick metal grating sat solidly on the counter and ran up to the ceiHng.

Adam walked slowly to the end of the room, sidestepping a varied
assortment of chairs — green and gray government throwaways, folding
types, narrow cafeteria seats.

"I'm gonna lock this door," Packer said as he stepped outside. "We'll
get Sam." The door slammed, and Adam was alone. He quickly picked
out a place at the end of the room just in case another lawyer arrived, at
which time the other lawyer would undoubtedly take a position far to
the other end and they could plot strategy with some measure of privacy.
He pulled a chair to the wooden counter, placed his jacket on another
chair, removed his legal pad, unscrewed his pen, and began chewing his
fingernails. He tried to stop the chewing, but he couldn't. His stomach
flipped violently, and his heels twitched out of control. He looked
through the screen and studied the inmates' portion of the room — the
same wooden counter, the same array of old chairs. In the center of the
screen before him was a slit, four inches by ten, and it would be through
this little hole that he would come face-to-face with Sam Cayhall.

He waited nervously, telling himself to be calm, take it easy, relax, he
could handle this. He scribbled something on the legal pad, but honestly
couldn't read it. He rolled up his sleeves. He looked around the room for
hidden microphones and cameras, but the place was so simple and mod-

76 JOHNGRISHAM

est he couldn't imagine anyone trying to eavesdrop. If Sergeant Packer
was any indication, the staff was laid-back, almost indifferent.

He studied the empty chairs on both sides of the screen, and won-
dered how many desperate people, in the last hours of their hves, had
met here with their attorneys and Hstened for words of hope. How^ many
urgent pleas had passed through this screen as the clock ticked steadily
away? How many lawyers had sat where he was now sitting and told
their clients that there was nothing left to do, that the execution would
proceed? It was a somber thought, and it calmed Adam quite a bit. He
was not the first to be here, and he would not be the last. He was a
lawyer, well trained, blessed with a quick mind, and arriving here with
the formidable resources of Kravitz & Bane behind him. He could do his
job. His legs slovenly became still, and he quit chewing his fingernails.

A door bolt clicked, and he jumped through his skin. It opened
slowly, and a young white guard stepped into the inmates' side. Behind
him, in a bright red jumpsuit, hands cuffed behind, was Sam Cayhall. He
glowered around the room, squinting through the screen, until his eyes
focused on Adam. A guard pulled at his elbow and led him to a spot
directly across from the lawyer. He was thin, pale, and six inches shorter
than both guards, but they seemed to give him plenty of room.

"Who are you?" he hissed at Adam, who at the moment had a finger-
nail between his teeth.

One guard pulled a chair behind Sam, and the other guard sat him in
it. He stared at Adam. The guards backed away, and were about to leave
when Adam said, "Could you remove the handcuffs, please?"

"No sir. We can't."

Adam swallowed hard. "Just take them off, okay. We're gonna be here
for a while," he said, mustering a degree of forcefulness. The guards
looked at each other as if this request had never been heard. A key was
quickly produced, and the handcuffs were removed.

Sam was not impressed. He glared at Adam through the opening in
the screen as the guards made their noisy departure. The door slammed,
and the deadbolt cHcked.

They were alone, the Cayhall version of a family reunion. The air
conditioner rattled and spewed, and for a long minute it made the only
sounds. Though he tried vaHantly, Adam was unable to look Sam in the
eyes for more than two seconds. He busied himself with important note
taking on the legal pad, and as he numbered each line he could feel the
heat of Sam's stare.

Finally, Adam stuck a business card through the opening. "My name
is Adam Hall. I'm a lawyer with Kravitz & Bane. Chicago and Mem-
phis."

THECHAMBER 77

Sam patiently took the card and examined it front and back. Adam
watched every move. His fmgers were wrinkled and stained brown with
cigarette smoke. His face was palHd, the only color coming from the salt
and pepper stubble of five days' growth. His hair was long, gray, and
oily, and shcked back severely. Adam decided quickly that he looked
nothing like the frozen images from the video. Nor did he resemble the
last known photos of himself, those from the 1981 trial. He was quite an
old man now, with pasty delicate skin and layers of tiny wrinkles around
his eyes. Deep burrows of age and misery cut through his forehead. The
only attractive feature was the set of piercing, indigo eyes that lifted
themselves from the card. "You Jew boys never quit, do you?" he said in
a pleasant, even tone. There was no hint of anger.

"I'm not Jewish," Adam said, successfully returning the stare.

"Then how can you work for Kravitz & Bane?" he asked as he set the
card aside. His words were soft, slow, and delivered with the patience of
a man who'd spent nine and a half years alone in a six-by-nine cell.

"We're an equal opportunity employer."

"That's nice. All proper and legal, I presume. In full compliance with
all civil rights decisions and federal do-gooder laws."

"Of course."

"How many partners are in Kravitz & Bane now?"

Adam shrugged. The number varied from year to year. "Around a
hundred and fifty."

"A hundred and fifty partners. And how many are women?"

Adam hesitated as he tried to count. "I really don't know. Probably a
dozen."

"A dozen," Sam repeated, barely moving his lips. His hands were
folded and still, and his eyes did not blink. "So, less than ten percent of
your partners are women. How many nigger partners do you have?"

"Could we refer to them as blacks?"

"Oh sure, but of course that too is an antiquated term. They now
want to be called African-Americans. Surely you're politically correct
enough to know this."

Adam nodded but said nothing.

"How many African-American partners do you have?"

"Four, I believe."

"Less than three percent. My, my. Kravitz & Bane, that great bastion
of civil justice and liberal political action, does, in fact, discriminate
against African-Americans and Female- Americans. I just don't know
what to say."

Adam scratched something illegible on his pad. He could argue, of
course, that almost a third of the associates were female and that the firm

78 JOHNGRISHAM

made diligent efforts to sign the top black la^v students. He could explain
how they had been sued for reverse discrimination by two white males
whose job offers disappeared at the last moment.

"How many Jewish-American partners do you have? Eighty per-
cent?"

"I don't know. It really doesn't matter to me."

"Well, it certainly matters to me. I was aWays embarrassed to be
represented by such blatant bigots."

"A lot of people would fmd it appropriate."

Sam carefuUy reached into the only visible pocket of his jumpsuit, and
removed a blue pack of Montclairs and a disposable Hghter. The jump-
suit was unbuttoned halfway down the chest, and a thick matting of gray
hair showed through the gap. The fabric was a very Hght cotton. Adam
could not imagine Hfe in this place with no air conditioning.

He Ht the cigarette and exhaled toward the ceiHng. "I thought I was
through with you people."

"They didn't send me down here. I volunteered."

"Why?"

"I don't know. You need a lawyer, and — "

"Why are you so nervous?"

Adam jerked his fingernails firom his teeth and stopped tapping his
feet. "I'm not nervous."

"Sure you are. I've seen lots of lawyers around this place, and I've
never seen one as nervous as you. What's the matter, kid? You afraid I'm
coming through the screen after you?"

Adam grunted and tried to smile. "Don't be siUy. I'm not nervous."

"How^ old are you?"

"Twenty-six."

"You look twenty-two. When did you finish law school?"

"Last year."

"Just great. The Jewish bastards have sent a greenhorn to save me. I've
known for a long time that they secretly wanted me dead, now this
proves it. I killed some Jews, now they want to kiU me. I was right aU
along."

"You admit you killed the Kramer kids?"

"What the heU kind of question is that? The jury said I did. For nine
years, the appeals courts have said the jury was right. That's all that
matters. Who the heU are you asking me questions like that?"

"You need a lawyer, Mr. CayhaU. I'm here to help."

"I need a lot of things, boy, but I damned sure don't need an eager
Httle tenderfoot Hke you to give me advice. You're dangerous, son, and
you're too ignorant to know it." Again, the words came deliberately and

THECHAMBER 79

without emotion. He held the cigarette between the index and middle
fmger of his right hand, and casually flipped ashes in an organized pile in
a plastic bowl. His eyes blinked occasionally. His face showed neither
feeling nor sentiment.

Adam took meaningless notes, then tried again to stare through the
sht into Sam's eyes. "Look, Mr. Cayhall, I'm a lawyer, and I have a
strong moral conviction against the death penalty. I am well educated,
well trained, well read on Eighth Amendment issues, and I can be of
assistance to you. That's why I'm here. Free of charge."

"Free of charge," Sam repeated. "How generous. Do you reaHze, son,
that I get at least three offers a week now from lawyers who want to
represent me for free? Big lawyers. Famous lawyers. Rich lawyers. Some
real sHmy snakes. They're all perfectly wiUing to sit where you're now
sitting, file all the last minute motions and appeals, do the interviews,
chase the cameras, hold my hand in the last hours, watch them gas me,
then do yet another press conference, then sign a book deal, a movie
deal, maybe a television mini-series deal about the life and times of Sam
Cayhall, a real Klan murderer. You see, son, I'm famous, and what I did
is now legendary. And since they're about to kiU me, then I'm about to
become even more famous. Thus, the lawyers want me. I'm worth a lot
of money. A sick country, right."

Adam was shaking his head. "I don't want any of that, I promise. I'll
put it in writing. I'll sign a complete confidentiality agreement."

Sam chuckled. "Right, and who's going to enforce it after I'm gone?"

"Your family," Adam said.

"Forget my family," Sam said firmly.

"My motives are pure, Mr. Cayhall. My firm has represented you for
seven years, so I know almost everything about your file. I've also done
quite a lot of research into your background."

"Join the club. I've had my underwear examined by a hundred half-ass
reporters. There are many people who know much about me, it seems,
and aU this combined knowledge is of absolutely no benefit to me right
now. I have four weeks. Do you know this?"

"I have a copy of the opinion."

"Four weeks, and they gas me."

"So let's get to work. You have my word that I will never talk to the
press unless you authorize it, that I'll never repeat anything you tell me,
and that I will not sign any book or movie deal. I swear it."

Sam lit another cigarette and stared at something on the counter. He
gently rubbed his right temple with his right thumb, the cigarette just
inches from his hair. For a long time the only sound was the gurgling of
the overworked window unit. Sam smoked and contemplated. Adam

80 JOHNGRISHAM

doodled on his pad and was quite proud that his feet were motionless
and his stomach was not aching. The silence was awkward, and he
figured, correctly, that Sam could sit and smoke and think in utter si-
lence for days.

"Are you familiar with Barroni?" Sam asked quiedy.

''BarroniV

"Yes, Barroni. Came down last week from the Ninth Circuit. Califor-
nia case."

Adam racked his brain for a trace of Barroni. "I might have seen it."

"You might have seen it? You're well trained, well read, etc., and you
might have seen Barroni? What kind of half-ass lawyer are you?"

"I'm not a half-ass lawyer."

"Right, right. What about Texas v. Eekes? Surely you've read that
one?

"When did it come down?"

"Within six weeks."

"What court?"

"Fifth Circuit."

"Eighth Amendment?"

"Don't be stupid," Sam grunted in genuine disgust. "Do you think
I'd spend my time reading freedom of speech cases? This is my ass sitting
over here, boy, these are my wrists and ankles that will be strapped
down. This is my nose the poison will hit."

"No. I don't remember Eekes."

"What do you read?"

"All the important cases."

"Have you read Barefoot?"
Or course.

"Tell me about Barefoot."

"What is this, a pop quiz?"

"This is whatever I want it to be. Where was Barefoot from?" Sam
asked.

"I don't remember. But the full name was Barefoot v. Estelle, a
landmark case in 1983 in which the Supreme Court held that death row
inmates cannot hold back valid claims on appeal so they can save them
for later. More or less."

"My, my, you have read it. Does it ever strike you as odd how the
same court can change its mind whenever it wants to? Think about it.
For two centuries the U.S. Supreme Court allowed legal executions.
Said they were constitutional, covered nicely by the Eighth Amendment.
Then, in 1972 the U.S. Supreme Court read the same, unchanged Con-
stitution and outlawed the death penalty. Then, in 1976 the U.S. Su-

THECHAMBER 81

preme Court said executions were in fact constitutional after all. Same
bunch of turkeys wearing the same black robes in the same building in
Washington. Now, the U.S. Supreme Court is changing the rules again
with the same Constitution. The Reagan boys are tired of reading too
many appeals, so they declare certain avenues to be closed. Seems odd to
me."

"Seems odd to a lot of people."

"What about DulaneyV Sam asked, taking a long drag. There was
little or no ventilation in the room and a cloud was forming above them.

"Where's it from?"

"Louisiana. Surely you've read it."

"I'm sure I have. In fact, I've probably read more cases than you, but I
don't always bother to memorize them unless I plan to use them."

"Use them where?"

"Motions and appeals."

"So you've handled death cases before. How many?"

"This is the first."

"Why am I not comforted by this? Those Jewish- American lawyers at
Kravitz & Bane sent you down here to experiment on me, right? Get
yourself a little hands-on training so you can stick it on your resume."

"I told you — they didn't send me down here."

"How about Garner Goodman? Is he still alive?"

"Yes. He's your age."

"Then he doesn't have long, does he? And Tyner?"

"Mr. Tyner's doing well. I'll tell him you asked."

"Oh please do. Tell him I really miss him, both of them, actually.
Hell, it took me almost two years to fire them."

"They worked their butts off for you."

"Tell them to send me a bill." Sam chuckled to himself, his first smile
of the meeting. He methodically stubbed out the cigarette in the bowl,
and lit another. "Fact is, Mr. Hall, I hate lawyers."

"That's the American way."

"Lawyers chased me, indicted me, prosecuted me, persecuted me,
screwed me, then sent me to this place. Since I've been here, they've
hounded me, screwed me some more, lied to me, and now they're back
in the form of you, a rookie zealot without a clue of how to find the
damned courthouse."

"You might be surprised."

"It'll be a helluva surprise, son, if you know your ass from a hole in
the ground. You'll be the first clown from Kravitz & Bane to possess
such information."

"They've kept you out of the gas chamber for the past seven years."

82 JOHNGRISHAM

"And I'm supposed to be thankful? There are fifteen residents of the
Row with more seniority than me. Why should I be next? I've been
here for nine and a half years. Treemont's been here for fourteen years.
Of course, he's an African-American and that always helps. They have
more rights, you know. It's much harder to execute one of them because
whatever they did was someone else's fault."

"That's not true."

"How the heU do you know what's true? A year ago you were still in
school, stiU wearing faded blue jeans all day long, stiU drinking beer at
happy hours with your ideaHstic Uttle buddies. You haven't Hved, son.
Don't teU me what's true."

"So you're in favor of swift executions for African-Americans?"

"Not a bad idea, reaUy. In fact, most of these punks deserve the gas."

"I'm sure that's a minority opinion on death row."

"You could say that."

"And you, of course, are different and don't belong here."

"No, I don't belong here. I'm a poHtical prisoner, sent here by an
egomaniac who used me for his own poHtical purposes."

"Can we discuss your guilt or innocence?"

"No. But I didn't do what the jury said I did."

"So you had an accomplice? Someone else planted the bomb?"

Sam rubbed the deep burrows in his forehead with his middle finger,
as if he was flipping the bird. But he wasn't. He was suddenly in a deep
and prolonged trance. The conference room was much cooler than his
cell. The conversation was aimless, but at least it was conversation with
someone other than a guard or the invisible inmate next door. He w^ould
take his time, make it last as long as possible.

Adam studied his notes and pondered what to say next. They had
been chatting for twenty minutes, sparring really, with no clear direc-
tion. He was determined to confront their family's history before he left.
He just didn't know how to do it.

Minutes passed. Neither looked at the other. Sam lit another Mont-
clair.

"Why do you smoke so much?" Adam finally said.

"I'd rather die of lung cancer. It's a common desire on death row."

"How many packs a day?"

"Three or four."

Another minute passed. Sam slowly finished the cigarette, and kindly
asked, "Where'd you go to school?"

"Law school at Michigan. Undergrad at Pepperdine."

"Where's that?"

"CaHfornia."

THECHAMBER 83

"Is that where you grew up?"

"Yeah."

"How many states have the death penalty?"

"Thirty-eight. Most of them don't use it, though. It seems to be
popular only in the Deep South, Texas, Florida, and CaHtbrnia."

"You know our esteemed legislature has changed the law here. Now
we can die by lethal injection. It's more humane. Ain't that nice?
Doesn't apply to me, though, since my conviction was years ago. I'll get
to snifF the gas."

"Maybe not."

"You're twenty-six?"

"Yeah."

"Born m 1964."

"That's right."

Sam removed another cigarette from the pack and tapped the filter on
the counter. "Where?"

"Memphis," Adam repHed without looking at him.

"You don't understand, son. This state needs an execution, and I
happen to be the nearest victim. Louisiana, Texas, and Florida are killing
them like flies, and the law-abidmg people of this state can't understand
why our little chamber is not being used. The more violent crime we
have, the more people beg for executions. Makes 'em feel better, like the
system is working hard to eliminate murderers. The politicians openly
campaign with promises of more prisons and tougher sentences and
more executions. That's why those clowns in Jackson voted for lethal
injection. It's supposed to be more humane, less objectionable, thus
easier to implement. You follow?"

Adam nodded his head slightly.

"It's time for an execution, and my number is up. That's why they're
pushing like hell. You can't stop it."

"We can certainly try. I want the opportunity."

Sam fmally lit the cigarette. He inhaled deeply, then whistled the
smoke through a small opening in his lips. He leaned forw-ard slightly on
his elbows and peered through the hole in the screen. "What part of
California are you from?"

"Southern. L.A." Adam glanced at the piercing eyes, then looked
away.

"Your family still there?"

A wicked pain shot through Adam's chest, and for a second his heart
froze. Sam puffed his cigarette and never blinked.

"My father's dead," he said with a shaky voice, and sank a few inches
in his chair.

84 JOHNGRISHAM

A long minute passed as Sam sat poised on the edge of his seat. Finally,
he said, "And your mother?"

"She Hves in Portland. Remarried."

"Where's your sister?" he asked.

Adam closed his eyes and dropped his head. "She's in college," he
mumbled.

"I beheve her name is Carmen, right?" Sam asked softly.

Adam nodded. "How'd you know?" he asked through gritted teeth.

Sam backed away from the screen and sank into the folding metal
chair. He dropped his current cigarette on the floor without looking at
it. "Why did you come here?" he asked, his voice much firmer and
tougher.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"The voice. You sound Hke your father. Why'd you come here?"

"Eddie sent me."

Their eyes met briefly, then Sam looked away. He slowly leaned
forward and planted both elbows on both knees. His gaze was fixed on
something on the floor. He grew perfectly still.

Then he placed his right hand over his eyes.

TEN

PHILLIP NAIFEH was sixty-three years old, and nineteen months
away from retirement. Nineteen months and four days. He had
served as superintendent of the State Department of Corrections
for twenty-seven years, and in doing so had survived six governors, an
army of state legislators, a thousand prisoners' lawsuits, countless intru-
sions by the federal courts, and more executions than he cared to re-
member.

The warden, as he preferred to be called (although the title was offi-
cially nonexistent under the terminology of the Mississippi Code), was a
full-blooded Lebanese whose parents had immigrated in the twenties and
settled in the Delta. They had prospered with a small grocery store in
Clarksdale where his mother had become somewhat famous for her
homemade Lebanese desserts. He was educated in the public schools,
went off to coUege, returned to the state, and, for reasons long forgotten,
had become involved in criminal justice.

He hated the death penalty. He understood society's yearning for it,
and long ago he had memorized all the sterile reasons for its necessity. It
was a deterrent. It removed killers. It was the ultimate punishment. It
was biblical. It satisfied the public's need for retribution. It relieved the
anguish of the victim's family. If pressed, he could make these arguments
as persuasively as any prosecutor. He actually believed one or two of
them.

But the burden of the actual killing was his, and he despised this
horrible aspect of his job. It was Phillip Naifeh who walked with the
condemned man from his cell to the Isolation Room, as it was called, to

86 JOHNGRISHAM

suffer the last hour before death. It was Phillip Naifeh who led him next
door to the Chamber Room, and supervised the strapping of the legs,
arms, and head. "Any last words?" he had uttered twenty-two times in
twenty-seven years. It was left to him to teU the guards to lock the
chamber door, and it was left to him to nod to the executioner to pull
the levers to mix the deadly gas. He had actually watched the faces of the
first two as they died, then decided it was best to watch the faces of the
witnesses in the small room behind the chamber. He had to select the
witnesses. He had to do a hundred things Ksted in a manual of how to
legally kill death row inmates, including the pronouncing of death, the
removal of the body from the chamber, the spraying of it to remove the
gas from the clothing, and on and on.

He had once testified before a legislative committee in Jackson, and
given his opinions about the death penalty. He had a better idea, he had
explained to deaf ears, and his plan would keep condemned killers in the
Maximum Security Unit in soUtary confinement where they couldn't
kill, couldn't escape, and would never be ehgible for parole. They would
eventually die on death row, but not at the hands of the state.

This testimony made headlines and almost got him fired.

Nineteen months and four days, he thought to himself, as he gently
ran his fingers through his thick gray hair and slowly read the latest
opinion from the Fifth Circuit. Lucas Mann sat across the desk and
waited.

"Four weeks," Naifeh said, putting the opinion aside. "How many
appeals are left?" he asked in a gentle drawl.

"The usual assortment of last ditch efforts," Mann repHed.

"When did this come down?"

"Early this morning. Sam wiU appeal it to the Supreme Court, where
it wiU probably be ignored. This should take a week or so."

"What's your opinion, counselor?"

"The meritorious issues have all been presented at this point. I'd give
it a fifty percent chance of happening in four weeks."

"That's a lot."

"Something teUs me this one might go off."

In the interminable workings of death penalty roulette, a 50 percent
chance was close to a certainty. The process would have to be started.
The manual would have to be consulted. After years of endless appeals
and delays, the last four weeks would be over in the blink of an eye.

"Have you talked to Sam?" the warden asked.

"Briefly. I took him a copy of the opinion this morning."

"Garner Goodman called me yesterday, said they were sending down
one of their young associates to talk to Sam. Did you take care of it?"

THECHAMBER 87

"I talked to Garner, and I talked to the associate. His name is Adam
Hall, and he's meeting with Sam as we speak. Should be interesting.
Sam's his grandfather."

"His what!"

"You heard me. Sam Cayhall is Adam HaU's paternal grandfather. We
were doing a routine background on Adam Hall yesterday, and noticed a
few gray spots. I caUed the FBI in Jackson, and within two hours they
had plenty of circumstantial evidence. I confronted him this morning,
and he confessed. I don't think he's trying to hide it."

"But he has a different name."

"It's a long story. They haven't seen each other since Adam was a
toddler. His father fled the state after Sam was arrested for the bombing.
Moved out West, changed names, drifted around, in and out of work,
sounds like a real loser. Killed himself in 1981. Anyway, Adam here goes
to college and makes perfect grades. Goes to law school at Michigan, a
Top Ten school, and is the editor of the law review. Takes a job with our
pals at Kravitz & Bane, and he shows up this morning for the reunion
with his grandfather."

Naifeh now raked both hands through his hair and shook his head.
"How wonderful. As if we needed more publicity, more idiotic report-
ers asking more asinine questions."

"They're meeting now. I am assuming Sam will agree to allow the kid
to represent him. I certainly hope so. We've never executed an inmate
without a lawyer."

"We should do some lawyers without the inmates," Naifeh said with a
forced smile. His hatred for lawyers was legendary, and Lucas didn't
mind. He understood. He had once estimated that Phillip Naifeh had
been named as a defendant in more lawsuits than anyone else in the
history of the state. He had earned the right to hate lawyers.

"I retire in nineteen months," he said, as if Lucas had never heard this.
"Who's next after Sam?"

Lucas thought a minute and tried to catalog the voluminous appeals of
forty-seven inmates. "No one, really. The Pizza Man came close four
months ago, but he got his stay. It'U probably expire in a year or so, but
there are other problems with his case. I can't see another execution for a
couple of years."

"The Pizza Man? Forgive me."

"Malcolm Friar. Killed three pizza delivery boys in a week. At trial he
claimed robbery was not the motive, said he was just hungry."

Naifeh raised both hands and nodded. "Okay, okay, I remember. He's
the nearest after Sam?"

"Probably. It's hard to say."

88 JOHNGRISHAM

"I know." Naifeh gently pushed away from his desk and walked to a
window. His shoes were somewhere under the desk. He thrust his hands
in his pockets, pressed his toes into the carpet, and thought deeply for a
while. He had been hospitaHzed after the last execution, a mild heart
flutter as his doctor preferred to call it. He'd spent a week in a hospital
bed watching his little flutter on a monitor, and promised his wife he
would never suffer through another execution. If he could somehow
survive Sam, then he could retire at full pension.

He turned and stared at his friend Lucas Mann. "I'm not doing this
one, Lucas. I'm passing the buck to another man, one of my subordi-
nates, a younger man, a good man, a man who can be trusted, a man
who's never seen one of these shows, a man who's just itching to get
blood on his hands."

"Not Nugent."

"That's the man. Retired Colonel George Nugent, my trusted assis-
tant."

"He's a nut."

"Yes, but he's our nut, Lucas. He's a fanatic for details, discipHne,
organization, hell, he's the perfect choice. I'U give him the manual, tell
him what I want, and he'U do a marvelous job of killing Sam CayhaU.
He'll be perfect."

George Nugent was an assistant superintendent at Parchman. He had
made a name for himself by implementing a most successful boot camp
for first offenders. It was a brutal, six-week ordeal in which Nugent
strutted and swaggered around in black boots, cursing like a drill instruc-
tor and threatening gang rape for the sHghtest infraction. The first of-
fenders rarely came back to Parchman.

"Nugent's crazy, PhiUip. It's a matter of time before he hurts some-
one."

"Right! Now you understand. We're going to let him hurt Sam, just
the way it should be done. By the book. Heaven knows how much
Nugent loves a book to go by. He's the perfect choice, Lucas. It'U be a
flawless execution."

It really mattered little to Lucas Mann. He shrugged, and said, "You're
the boss."

"Thanks," Naifeh said. "Just watch Nugent, okay. I'll watch him on
this end, and you watch the legal stuff. We'll get through it."

"This wiU be the biggest one yet," Lucas said.

"I know. I'U have to pace myself. I'm an old man."

Lucas gathered his file from the desk and headed for the door. "I'll call
you after the kid leaves. He's supposed to check in with me before he
goes."

THECHAMBER 89

"I'd like to meet him," Naifeh said.
"He's a nice kid."
"Some family, huh."

THE NICE KID and his condemned grandfather had spent fifteen min-
utes in silence, the only sound in the room the uneasy rattling of the
overworked AC unit. At one point, Adam had walked to the wall and
waved his hand before the dusty vents. There was a trace of cool air. He
leaned on the counter with his arms folded and stared at the door, as far
away from Sam as possible. He was leaning and staring when the door
opened and the head of Sergeant Packer appeared. Just checking to see if
things were okay, he said, glancing first at Adam then down the room
and through the screen at Sam, who was leaning forward in his chair
with a hand over his face.

"We're fine," Adam said without conviction.

"Good, good," Packer said and hurriedly closed the door. It locked,
and Adam slowly made his way back to his chair. He pulled it close to
the screen and rested on his elbows. Sam ignored him for a minute or
two, then wiped his eyes with a sleeve and sat up. They looked at each
other.

"We need to talk," Adam said quietly.

Sam nodded but said nothing. He wiped his eyes again, this time with
the other sleeve. He removed a cigarette and put it between his lips. His
hand shook as he flicked the lighter. He puffed quickly.

"So you're really Alan," he said in a low, husky voice.

"At one time, I guess. I didn't know it until my father died."

"You were born in 1964."

"Correct."

"My first grandson."

Adam nodded and glanced away.

"You disappeared in 1967."

"Something like that. I don't remember it, you know. My earliest
memories are from California."

"I heard Eddie went to California, and that there was another child.
Someone told me later her name was Carmen. I would hear bits and
pieces over the years, knew y'aU were somewhere in Southern Califor-
nia, but he did a good job of disappearing."

"We moved around a lot when I was a kid. I think he had trouble
keeping a job."

"You didn't know about me?"

"No. The family was never mentioned. I found out about it after his
funeral."

90 JOHNGRISHAM

"Who told you?"

"Lee."

Sam closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then puffed again. "How is
she?"

"Okay, I guess."

"Why'd you go to work for Kravitz & Bane?"

"It's a good firm."

"Did you know they represented me?"

"Yes."

"So you've been planning this?"

"For about five years."

"But why?"

"I don't know."

"You must have a reason."

"The reason is obvious. You're my grandfather, okay. Like it or not,
you're who you are and I'm who I am. And I'm here now, so what are
we going to do about it?"

"I think you should leave."

"I'm not leaving, Sam. I've been preparing for this a long time."

"Preparing for what?"

"You need legal representation. You need help. That's why I'm here."

"I'm beyond help. They're determined to gas me, okay, for lots of
reasons. You don't need to get involved in it."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one, it's hopeless. You're gonna get hurt if you bust your ass
and you're unsuccessful. Second, your true identity will be revealed. It'U
be very embarrassing. Life for you will be much better if you remain
Adam Hall."

"I am Adam HaU, and I don't plan to change it. I'm also your grand-
son, and we can't change that, can we? So what's the big deal?"

"It'U be embarrassing for your family. Eddie did a great job of protect-
ing you. Don't blow it."

"My cover's already blown. My firm knows it. I told Lucas Mann,
and — "

"That jerk'll tell everybody. Don't trust him for a minute."

"Look, Sam, you don't understand. I don't care if he teUs. I don't care
if the world knows that I'm your grandson. I'm tired of these dirty little
family secrets. I'm a big boy now, I can think for myself. Plus, I'm a
lawyer, and my skin is getting thick. I can handle it."

Sam relaxed a bit in his chair and looked at the floor with a pleasant
little smirk, the kind grown men often give to little boys who are acting
bigger than their years. He grunted at something and very slowly nod-

THECHAMBER 91

ded his head. "You just don't understand, kid," he said again, now in the
measured, patient tone.

"So explain it to me," Adam said.

"It would take forever."

"We have four weeks. You can do a lot of talking in four weeks."

"Just exactly what is it that you want to hear?"

Adam leaned even closer on his elbows, pen and pad ready. His eyes
were inches from the slit in the screen. "First, I want to talk about the
case — appeals, strategies, the trials, the bombing, who was with you that
night — "

"No one was with me that night."

"We can talk about it later."

"We're talking about it now. I was alone, do you hear me?"

"Okay. Second, I want to know about my family."

"Why?"

"Why not? Why keep it buried? I want to know about your father
and his father, and your brothers and cousins. I may dislike these people
when it's all over, but I have the right to know about them. I've been
deprived of this information all of my life, and I want to know."

"It's nothing remarkable."

"Oh really. WeU, Sam, I think it's pretty remarkable that you've made
it here to death row. This is a pretty exclusive society. Throw in the fact
that you're white, middle class, almost seventy years old, and it becomes
even more remarkable. I want to know how and why you got here.
What made you do those things? How many Klansmen were in my
family? And why? How many other people were killed along the way?"

"And you think I'U just spill my guts with aU this?"

"Yeah, I think so. You'll come around. I'm your grandson, Sam, the
only living, breathing relative who gives a damn about you anymore.
You'll talk, Sam. You'll talk to me."

"Well, since I'll be so talkative what else will we discuss?"

"Eddie."

Sam took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "You don't want much,
do you?" he said softly. Adam scribbled something meaningless on his
pad.

It was now time for the ritual of another cigarette, and Sam per-
formed it with even more patience and care. Another blast of blue
smoke joined the fog well above their heads. His hands were steady
again. "When we get finished with Eddie, who do you want to talk
about?"

"I don't know. That should keep us busy for four weeks."

"When do we talk about you?"

92 JOHNGRISHAM

"Anytime." Adam reached into his briefcase and removed a thin file.
He sHd a sheet of paper and a pen through the opening. "This is an
agreement for legal representation. Sign at the bottom."

Without touching it, Sam read it from a distance. "So I sign up again
with Kravitz & Bane."

"Sort of"

"What do you mean, sort of? Says right here I agree to let those Jews
represent me again. It took me forever to fire them, and, heU, I wasn't
even paying them."

"The agreement is with me, Sam, okay. You'U never see those guys
unless you w^ant to."

"I don't want to."

"Fine. I happen to w^ork for the firm, and so the agreement must be
with the firm. It's easy."

"Ah, the optimism of youth. Everything's easy. Here I sit less than a
hundred feet from the gas chamber, clock ticking away on the wall over
there, getting louder and louder, and everything's easy."

'Just sign the damned paper, Sam."

'And then what?"

'And then we go to work. Legally, 1 can't do anything for you until
we have that agreement. You sign it, we go to work."

'And what's the first bit of work you'd Hke to do?"

'Walk through the Kramer bombing, very slowly, step by step."

'It's been done a thousand times."

'We'U do it again. I have a thick notebook fuU of questions."

'They've all been asked."

'Yeah, Sam, but they haven't been answered, have they?"
Sam stuck the filter between his lips.

'And they haven't been asked by me, have they?"

'You think I'm lying."

'Are you?"

'No."

'But you haven't told the ^vhole story, have you?"

'What difierence does it make, counselor? You've read Bateman."

'Yeah, I've memorized Bateman, and there are a number of soft spots
in it.

'Typical lawyer."

'If there's new evidence, then there are ways to present it. All we're
doing, Sam, is trying to create enough confusion to make some judge
somewhere give it a second thought. Then a third thought. Then he
grants a stay so he can learn more."

"I know how the game is played, son."

THECHAMBER 93

"Adam, okay, it's Adam."

"Yeah, and just call me Gramps. I suppose you plan to appeal to the
governor."

"Yes."

Sam inched forward in his chair and moved close to the screen. With
the index finger of his right hand, he began pointing at a spot some-
where in the center of Adam's nose. His face was suddenly harsh, his
eyes narrow. "You listen to me, Adam," he growled, fmger pointing
back and forth. "If I sign this piece of paper, you are never to talk to that
bastard. Never. Do you understand?"

Adam watched the fmger but said nothing.

Sam decided to continue. "He is a bogus son of a bitch. He is vile,
sleazy, thoroughly corrupt, and completely able to mask it all with a
pretty smile and a clean haircut. He is the only reason I'm sitting here on
death row. If you contact him in any way, then you're finished as my
lawyer."

"So I'm your lawyer."

The fmger dropped and Sam relaxed a bit. "Oh, I may give you a
shot, let you practice on me. You know, Adam, the legal profession is
really screwed up. If I was a free man, just trying to make a living,
minding my own business, paying my taxes, obeying the laws and such,
then I couldn't fmd a lawyer who'd take the time to spit on me unless I
had money. But here I am, a convicted killer, condemned to die, not a
penny to my name, and I've got lawyers all over the country begging to
represent me. Big, rich lav^ers with long names preceded with initials
and followed by numerals, famous lawyers with their own jets and televi-
sion shows. Can you explain this?"

"Of course not. Nor do I care about it."

"It's a sick profession you've gotten yourself in."

"Most lawyers are honest and hardworking."

"Sure. And most of my pals here on death row would be ministers and
missionaries if they hadn't been wrongly convicted."

"The governor might be our last chance."

"Then they might as well gas me now. That pompous ass'll probably
want to witness my execution, then he'll hold a press conference and
replay every detail for the world. He's a spineless little worm who's made
it this far because of me. And if he can milk me for a few more sound
bites, then he'U do it. Stay away from him."

"We can discuss it later."

"We're discussing it now, I believe. You'll give me your word before I
sign this paper."

"Any more conditions?"

94 JOHNGRISHAM

"Yeah. I want something added here so that if I decide to fire you
again, then you and your firm won't fight me. That should be easy."

"Let me see it."

The agreement was passed through the slit again, and Adam printed a
neat paragraph at the bottom. He handed it back to Sam, who read it
slowly and laid it on the counter.

"You didn't sign it," Adam said.

"I'm still thinking."

"Can I ask some questions while you're thinking?"

"You can ask them."

"Where did you learn to handle explosives?"

"Here and there."

"There were at least five bombings before Kramer, all with the same
type, all very basic — dynamite, caps, fuses. Kramer, of course, was differ-
ent because a timing device was used. Who taught you how to make
bombs?"

"Have you ever lit a firecracker?"
Sure.

"Same principle. A match to the fuse, run like crazy, and boom."

"The timing device is a bit more compHcated. Who taught you how
to wire one?"

"My mother. When do you plan to return here?"

"Tomorrow."

"Good. Here's what we'll do. I need some time to think about this. I
don't want to talk right now, and I damned sure don't want to answer a
bunch of questions. Let me look over this document, make some
changes, and we'll meet again tomorrow."

"That's wasting time."

"I've wasted almost ten years here. What's another day?"

"They may not allow me to return if I don't officially represent you.
This visit is a favor."

"A great bunch of guys, aren't they? Tell them you're my lawyer for
the next twenty-four hours. They'll let you in."

"We have a lot of ground to cover, Sam. I'd like to get started."

"I need to think, okay. When you spend over nine years alone in a
cell, you become real good at thinking and analyzing. But you can't do it
fast, understand? It takes longer to sort things out and place them in
order. I'm sort of spinnin' right now, you know. You've hit me kinda
hard."

"Okay."

"I'll be better tomorrow. We can talk then. I promise."

"Sure." Adam placed the cap on his pen and stuck it in his pocket. He

THECHAMBER 95

slid the file into the briefcase, and relaxed in his seat. "I'll be staying in
Memphis for the next couple of months."

"Memphis? I thought you lived in Chicago."

"We have a smaD office in Memphis. I'll be working out of there. The
number's on the card. Feel free to call anytime."

"What happens when this thing is over?"

"I don't know. I may go back to Chicago."

"Are you married?"

"No."

"Is Carmen?"

"No."

"What's she like?"

Adam folded his hands behind his head and examined the thin fog
above them. "She's very smart. Very pretty. Looks a lot like her
mother."

"Evelyn was a beautiful girl."

"She's still beautiful."

"I always thought Eddie was lucky to get her. I didn't like her family,
though."

And she certainly didn't like Eddie's, Adam thought to himself Sam's
chin dropped almost to his chest. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the
bridge of his nose. "This family business will take some work, won't it?"
he said without looking.

"Yep."

"I may not be able to talk about some things."

"Yes you will. You owe it to me, Sam. And you owe it to yourself."

"You don't know what you're talking about, and you wouldn't want
to know all of it."

"Try me. I'm sick of secrets."

"Why do you want to know so much?"

"So I can try and make some sense of it."

"That'll be a waste of time."

"I'll have to decide that, won't I?"

Sam placed his hands on his knees, and slowly stood. He took a deep
breath and looked down at Adam through the screen. "I'd like to go
now."

Their eyes met through the narrow diamonds in the partition. "Sure,"
Adam said. "Can I bring you anything?"

"No. Just come back."

"I promise."

ELEVEN

PACKER CLOSED THE DOOR and locked it, and together
they stepped from the narrow shadow outside the conference
room into the blinding midday sun. Adam closed his eyes and
stopped for a second, then fished through his pockets in a desperate
search for sunglasses. Packer waited patiently, his eyes sensibly covered
with a pair of thick imitation Ray-Bans, his face shielded by the wide
brim of an official Parchman cap. The air was suffocating and almost
visible. Sweat immediately covered Adam's arms and face as he finally
found the sunglasses in his briefcase and put them on. He squinted and
grimaced, and once able to actually see, he followed Packer along the
brick trail and baked grass in front of the unit.

"Sam okay?" Packer asked. His hands were in his pockets and he was
in no hurry.
1 guess.

"You hungry?"

"No," Adam replied as he glanced at his watch. It was almost one
o'clock. He wasn't sure if Packer was offering prison food or something
else, but he was taking no chances.

"Too bad. Today's Wednesday, and that means turnip greens and corn
bread. Mighty good."

"Thanks." Adam was certain that somewhere deep in his genes he
was supposed to crave turnip greens and corn bread. Today's menu
should make his mouth drool and his stomach yearn. But he considered
himself a CaHfornian, and to his knowledge had never seen turnip

THECHAMBER 97

greens. "Maybe next week," he said, hardly beUeving he was being
offered lunch on the Row.

They were at the first of the double gates. As it opened, Packer,
without removing his hands from his pockets, said, "When you coming
back?"

"Tomorrow."

"That soon?"

"Yeah. I'm going to be around for a while."

"Well, nice to meet you." He grinned broadly and walked away.

As Adam walked through the second gate, the red bucket began its
descent. It stopped three feet from the ground, and he ratded through
the selection at the bottom until he found his keys. He never looked up
at the guard.

A white mini-van with official markings on the door and along the
sides was waiting by Adam's car. The driver's window came down, and
Lucas Mann leaned out. "Are you in a hurry?"

Adam glanced at his watch again. "Not really."

"Good. Hop in. I need to talk to you. We'll take a quick tour of the
place."

Adam didn't want a quick tour of the place, but he was planning to
stop by Mann's office anyway. He opened the passenger's door and
threw his coat and briefcase on a rear seat. Thankfully, the air was at full
throtde. Lucas, cool and still impeccably starched, looked odd sitting
behind the wheel of a mini-van. He eased away from MSU and headed
for the main drive.

"How'd it go?" he asked. Adam tried to recall Sam's exact description
of Lucas Mann. Something to the effect that he could not be trusted.

"Okay, I guess," he replied, carefully vague.

"Are you going to represent him?"

"I think so. He wants to dwell on it tonight. And he wants to see me
tomorrow."

"No problem, but you need to sign him up tomorrow. We need some
type of written authorization from him."

"I'U get it tomorrow. Where are we going?" They turned left and
headed away from the front of the prison. They passed the last of the
neat white houses with shade trees and flower beds, and now they were
driving through fields of cotton and beans that stretched forever.

"Nowhere in particular. Just thought you might want to see some of
our farm. We need to cover a few things."

"I'm listening."

"The decision of the Fifth Circuit hit the wire at mid-morning, and
we've already had at least three phone calls from reporters. They smell

98 JOHNGRISHAM

blood, of course, and they want to know if this might be the end for
Sam. I know some of these people, dealt with them before on other
executions. A few are nice guys, most are obnoxious jerks. But anyway,
they're all asking about Sam and whether or not he has a lawyer. Will he
represent himself to the very end? You know, that kind of crap."

In a field to the right was a large group of inmates in w^hite pants and
without shirts. They were working the rows and sweating profusely,
their backs and chests drenched and gHstening under the scorching sun.
A guard on a horse watched them with a rifle. "What are these guys
doing?" Adam asked.

"Chopping cotton."

"Are they required to?"

"No. All volunteers. It's either that or sit in a cell aU day."

"They wear white. Sam w^ears red. I saw a gang by the highway in
blue."

"It's part of the classification system. White means these guys are low
risk."

"What were their crimes?"

"Everything. Drugs, murder, repeat offenders, you name it. But
they've behaved since they've been here, so they wear white and they're
allowed to work."

The mini-van turned at an intersection, and the fences and razor wire
returned. To the left was a series of modern barracks built on two levels
and branching in all directions from a central hub. If not for the barbed
wire and guard towers, the unit could pass for a badly designed coUege
dormitory. "What's that?" Adam asked, pointing.

"Unit 30."

"How many units are there?"

"I'm not sure. We keep building and tearing down. Around thirty."

"It looks new."

"Oh yes. We've been in trouble with the federal courts for almost
twenty years, so we've been doing lots of building. It's no secret that the
real superintendent of this place has been a federal judge."

"Can the reporters wait until tomorrow? I need to see what Sam has
on his mind. I'd hate to talk to them now, and then things go badly
tomorrow."

"I think I can put them off a day. But they won't wait long."

They passed the last guard tower and Unit 30 disappeared. They drove
at least two miles before the gleaming razor wire of another compound
peeked above the fields.

"I talked to the warden this morning, after you got here," Lucas said.
"He said he'd like to meet you. You'U Hke him. He hates executions.

THECHAMBER 99

you know. He was hoping to retire in a couple of years without going
through another, but now it looks doubtful."

"Let me guess. He's just doing his job, right?"

"We're all doing our jobs here."

"That's my point. I get the impression that everybody here wants to
pat me on the back and speak to me in sad voices about what's about to
happen to poor old Sam. Nobody wants to kill him, but you're all just
doing your jobs."

"There are plenty of people who want Sam dead."

"Who?"

"The governor and the Attorney General. I'm sure you're familiar
with the governor, but the AG is the one you'd better watch. He, of
course, wants to be governor one day. For some reason we've elected in
this state a whole crop of these young, terribly ambitious politicians who
just can't seem to sit still."

"His name's Roxburgh, right?"

"That's him. He loves cameras, and I expect a press conference from
him this afternoon. If he holds true to form, he'll take full credit for the
victory in the Fifth Circuit, and promise a diligent effort to execute Sam
in four weeks. His office handles these things, you know. And then it
wouldn't surprise me if the governor himself doesn't appear on the
evening news with a comment or two. My point is this, Adam — there
will be enormous pressure from above to make sure there are no more
stays. They want Sam dead for their own political gain. They'll milk it
for all they can get."

Adam watched the next camp as they drove by. On a concrete slab
between two buildings, a game of basketball was in full force with at least
a dozen players on each side. All were black. Next to the court, a row of
barbells was being pumped and jerked around by some heavy lifters.
Adam noticed a few whites.

Lucas turned onto another road. "There's another reason," he contin-
ued. "Louisiana is killing them right and left. Texas has executed six
already this year. Florida, five. We haven't had an execution in over two
years. We're dragging our feet, some people say. It's time to show these
other states that we're just as serious about good government as they are.
Just last week in Jackson a legislative committee held hearings on the
issue. There were all sorts of angry statements by our leaders about the
endless delays in these matters. Not surprisingly, it was decided that the
federal courts are to blame. There's lots of pressure to kill somebody.
And Sam happens to be next."

"Who's after Sam?"

100 JOHN GRISHAM

"Nobody, really. It could be two years before we get this close again.
The buzzards are circling."

"Why are you teUing me this?"

"I'm not the enemy, okay? I'm the attorney for the prison, not the
State of Mississippi. And you've never been here before. I thought you'd
want to know these things."

"Thanks," Adam said. Though the information was unsoHcited, it
was certainly useful.

"I'll help in any way I can."

The roofs of buildings could be seen on the horizon. "Is that the front
of the prison?" Adam asked.

"Yes."

"I'd like to leave now."

THE MEMPHIS OFFICE of Kravitz & Bane occupied two floors of a
building called Brinkley Plaza, a 1920s edifice on the corner of Main and
Monroe in downtown. Main Street was also known as the Mid-America
Mall. Cars and trucks had been banished when the city attempted to
revitalize its downtown and converted asphalt into tiles, fountains, and
decorative trees. Only pedestrian traffic was permitted on the Mall.

The building itself had been revitalized and renewed tastefuUy. Its
main lobby was marble and bronze. The K&B offices were large and
richly decorated with antiques and oak-paneled walls and Persian rugs.

Adam was escorted by an attractive young secretary to the corner
office of Baker Cooley, the managing partner. They introduced them-
selves, shook hands, and admired the secretary as she left the room and
closed the door. Cooley leered a bit too long and seemed to hold his
breath until the door was completely closed and the glimpse was over.

"Welcome south," Cooley said, finally exhaling and sitting in his posh
burgundy leather swivel chair.

"Thanks. I guess you've talked to Garner Goodman."

"Yesterday. Twice. He gave me the score. We've got a nice Httle
conference room at the end of this hall with a phone, computer, plenty
of room. It's yours for the, uh, duration."

Adam nodded and glanced around the office. Cooley was in his early
fifties, a neat man with an organized desk and a clean room. His words
and hands were quick, and he bore the gray hair and dark circles of a
frazzled accountant. "What kind of work goes on here?" Adam asked.

"Not much litigation, and certainly no criminal work," he answered
quickly as if criminals were not allowed to set their dirty feet on the
thick carpeting and fancy rugs of this establishment. Adam remembered
Goodman's description of the Memphis branch — a boutique firm of

THE CHAMBER 101

twelve good lawyers whose acquisition years earlier by Kravitz & Bane
was now a mystery. But the additional address looked nice on the letter-
head.

"Mostly corporate stuff," Cooley continued. "We represent some old
banks, and we do a lot of bond work for local governmental units."

Exhilarating work, Adam thought.

"The firm itself dates back a hundred and forty years, the oldest in
Memphis, by the way. Been around since the Civil War. It split up and
spun off a few times, then merged with the big boys in Chicago."

Cooley delivered this brief chronicle with pride, as if the pedigree had
a damned thing to do with practicing law in 1990.

"How many lawyers?" Adam asked, trying to fill in the gaps of a
conversation that had started slow and was going nowhere.

"A dozen. Eleven paralegals. Nine clerks. Seventeen secretaries. Mis-
cellaneous support staff of ten. Not a bad operation for this part of the
country. Nothing like Chicago, though."

You're right about that, Adam thought. "I'm looking forward to visit-
ing here. I hope I won't be in the way."

"Not at all. I'm afraid we won't be much help, though. We're the
corporate types, you know, office practitioners, lots of paperwork and
aU. I haven't seen a courtroom in twenty years."

"I'll be fine. Mr. Goodman and those guys up there will help me."

Cooley jumped to his feet and rubbed his hands as if he wasn't sure
what else to do with them. "Well, uh, Darlene will be your secretary.
She's actually in a pool, but I've sort of assigned her to you. She'll give
you a key, give you the scoop on parking, security, phones, copiers, the
works. All state of the art. Really good stuff. If you need a paralegal, just
let me know. We'll steal one from one of the other guys, and — "

"No, that won't be necessary. Thanks."

"Well, then, let's go look at your office."

Adam followed Cooley down the quiet and empty hallway, and
smiled to himself as he thought of the offices in Chicago. There the halls
were always filled with harried lawyers and busy secretaries. Phones rang
incessantly, and copiers and faxes and intercoms beeped and buzzed and
gave the place the atmosphere of an arcade. It was a madhouse for ten
hours a day. SoHtude was found only in the alcoves of the libraries, or
maybe in the corners of the building where the partners worked.

This place was as quiet as a funeral parlor. Cooley pushed open a door
and flipped on a switch. "How's this?" he asked, waving his arm in a
broad circle. The room was more than adequate, a long narrow office
with a beautiful polished table in the center and five chairs on each side.
At one end, a makeshift workplace with a phone, computer, and execu-

102 JOHN GRISHAM

tive's chair had been arranged. Adam "walked along the table, glancing at
the bookshelves filled with neat but unused law books. He peeked
through the curtains of the window. "Nice view," he said, looking three
floors below at the pigeons and people on the Mall.

"Hope it's adequate," Cooley said.

"It's very nice. It'll work just fine. I'll keep to myself and stay out of
your "way."

"Nonsense. If you need anything, just give me a call." Cooley was
walking slowly toward Adam. "There is one thing, though," he said
with his eyebrows suddenly serious.

Adam faced him. "What is it?"

"Got a call a couple of hours ago from a reporter here in Memphis.
Don't know the guy, but he said he's been following the Cayhall case for
years. Wanted to know if our firm was still handling the case, you know.
I suggested he contact the boys in Chicago. We, of course, have nothing
to do with it." He pulled a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and
handed it to Adam. It had a name and a phone number.

"I'll take care of it," Adam said.

Cooley took a step closer and crossed his arms on his chest. "Look,
Adam, we're not trial la"wyers, you know. We do the corporate work.
Money's great. We're very low key, and we avoid publicity, you know."

Adam nodded slowly but said nothing.

"We've never touched a criminal case, certainly nothing as huge as
this."

"You don't "want any of the dirt to rub off on you, right?"

"I didn't say that. Not at all. No. It's just that things are different
down here. This is not Chicago. Our biggest clients happen to be some
rather staid and proper old bankers, been with us for years, and, well,
we're just concerned about our image. You kno"w what I mean?"

"No."

"Sure you do. We don't deal with criminals, and, well, we're very
sensitive about the image we project here in Memphis."

"You don't deal with criminals?"

"Never."

"But you represent big banks?"

"Come on, Adam. You know where I'm coming from. This area of
our practice is changing rapidly. Deregulation, mergers, failures, a real
dynamic sector of the law. Competition is fierce among the big law
firms, and we don't want to lose clients. Hell, everybody wants banks."

"And you don't want your clients tainted by mine?"

"Look, Adam, you're from Chicago. Let's keep this matter where it

THE CHAMBER 103

belongs, okay? It's a Chicago case, handled by you guys up there. Mem-
phis has nothing to do with it, okay?"

-"This office is part of Kravitz & Bane."

"Yeah, and this office has nothing to gain by being connected to scum
like Sam CayhaU."

"Sam Cay hall is my grandfather."

"Shit!" Cooley's knees buckled and his arms dropped from his chest.
"You're lying!"

Adam took a step toward him. "I'm not lying, and if you object to my
presence here, then you need to call Chicago."

"This is awful," Cooley said as he retreated and headed for the door.

"Call Chicago."

"I might do that," he said, almost to himself, as he opened the door
and disappeared, mumbling something else.

Welcome to Memphis, Adam said as he sat in his new chair and stared
at the blank computer screen. He placed the scrap of paper on the table
and looked at the name and phone number. A sharp hunger pain hit,
and he realized he hadn't eaten in hours. It was almost four. He was
suddenly weak and tired and hungry.

He gently placed both feet on the table next to the phone, and closed
his eyes. The day was a blur, from the anxiety of driving to Parchman
and seeing the front gate of the prison, from the unexpected meeting
with Lucas Mann, to the horror of stepping onto the Row, to the fear of
confronting Sam. And now the warden wanted to meet him, the press
wanted to inquire, the Memphis branch of his firm wanted it all hushed
up. All this, in less than eight hours.

What could he expect tomorrow?

THEY SAT next to each other on the deep cushioned sofa with a bowl
of microwave popcorn between them. Their bare feet were on the coffee
table amid a half dozen empty cartons of Chinese food and two bottles
of wine. They peered over their toes and watched the television. Adam
held the remote control. The room was dark. He slowly ate popcorn.

Lee hadn't moved in a long time. Her eyes were wet, but she said
nothing. The video started for the second time.

Adam pushed the Pause button as Sam first appeared, in handcuffs,
being rushed from the jail to a hearing. "Where were you when you
heard he was arrested?" he asked without looking at her.

"Here in Memphis," she said quietly but with a strong voice. "We
had been married for a few years. I was at home. Phelps called and said
there had been a bombing in GreenviUe, at least two people were dead.
Might be the Klan. He told me to watch the news at noon, but I was

104 JOHN GRISHAM

afraid to. A few hours later, my mother called and told me they had
arrested Daddy for the bombing. She said he ^vas in jail in Greenville."

"How'd you react?"

"I don't know. Stunned. Scared. Eddie got on the phone and told me
that he and Mother had been instructed by Sam to sneak over to Cleve-
land and retrieve his car. I remember Eddie kept saying that he'd finally
done it, he'd finally done it. He'd kiUed someone else. Eddie was crying
and I started crying, and 1 remember it was horrible."

"They got the car."

"Yeah. No one ever knew it. It never came out during any of the
trials. We were scared the cops would find out about it, and make Eddie
and my mother testify. But it never happened."

"Where was I?"

"Let me see. You guys lived in a Httle white house in Clanton, and
I'm sure you were there with Evelyn. I don't think she was working at
the time. But I'm not sure."

"What kind of work was my father doing?"

"I don't remember. At one time he worked as a manager in an auto
parts store in Clanton, but he was always changing jobs."

The video continued with cHps of Sam being escorted to and from the
jail and the courthouse, then there was the report that he had been
formally indicted for the murders. He paused it. "Did any one of you
visit Sam in jail?"

"No. Not while he was in Greenville. His bond was very high, a half
a million dollars, I think."

"It was a half a million."

"And at first the family tried to raise the money to bail him out.
Mother, of course, wanted me to convince Phelps to write a check.
Phelps, of course, said no. He wanted no part of it. We fought bitterly,
but I couldn't really blame him. Daddy stayed in jail. I remember one of
his brothers trying to borrow against some land, but it didn't work.
Eddie didn't want to go to jail to see him, and Mother wasn't able. I'm
not sure Sam wanted us there."

"When did we leave Clanton?"

Lee leaned forward and took her wineglass from the table. She sipped
and thought for a moment. "He'd been in jail about a month, I believe.
I drove down one day to see Mother, and she told me Eddie was talking
about leaving. I didn't beHeve it. She said he was embarrassed and humil-
iated and couldn't face people around town. He'd just lost his job and he
wouldn't leave the house. I called him and talked to Evelyn. Eddie
wouldn't get on the phone. She said he was depressed and disgraced and
aU that, and I remember teUing her that we all felt that way. I asked her if

THE CHAMBER 105

they were leaving, and she distinctly said no. About a week later, Mother
called again and said you guys had packed and left in the middle of the
night. The landlord was calling and wanting rent, and no one had seen
Eddie. The house was empty."

"I wish I remembered some of this."

"You were only three, Adam. The last time I saw you you were
playing by the garage of the little white house. You were so cute and
sweet."

"Gee thanks."

"Several weeks passed, then one day Eddie called me and told me to
tell Mother that you guys were in Texas and doing okay."
Texas?

"Yeah. Evelyn told me much later that y'all sort of drifted westward.
She was pregnant and anxious to settle down some place. He caUed again
and said y'aU were in California. That was the last call for many years."

"Years?"

"Yeah. I tried to convince him to come home, but he was adamant.
Swore he'd never return, and I guess he meant it."

"Where were my mother's parents?"

"I don't know. They were not from Ford County. Seems like they
lived in Georgia, maybe Florida."

"I've never met them."

He pushed the button again and the video continued. The first trial
started in Nettles County. The camera panned the courthouse lawn with
the group of Klansmen and rows of policemen and swarms of onlookers.

"This is incredible," Lee said.

He stopped it again. "Did you go to the trial?"

"Once. I sneaked in the courthouse and listened to the closing argu-
ments. He forbade us to watch any of his three trials. Mother was not
able. Her blood pressure was out of control, and she was taking lots of
medication. She was practically bedridden."

"Did Sam know you were there?"

"No. I sat in the back of the courtroom with a scarf over my head. He
never saw me."

"What was Phelps doing?"

"Hiding in his office, tending to his business, praying no one would
find out Sam Cayhall was his father-in-law. Our first separation occurred
not long after this trial."

"What do you remember from the trial, from the courtroom?"

"I remember thinking that Sam got himself a good jury, his kind of
people. I don't know how his lawyer did it, but they picked twelve of

106 JOHN GRISHAM

the biggest rednecks they could find. I watched the jurors react to the
prosecutor, and I watched them listen carefully to Sam's lawyer."

"Clovis Brazelton."

"He was quite an orator, and they hung on every word. I was shocked
when the jury couldn't agree on a verdict and a mistrial was declared. I
was convinced he w^ould be acquitted. I think he w^as shocked too."

The video continued with reactions to the mistrial, w^ith generous
comments from Clovis Brazelton, with another shot of Sam leaving the
courthouse. Then the second trial began with its similarities to the first.
"How long have you worked on this?" she asked.

"Seven years. I was a freshman at Pepperdine when the idea hit. It's
been a challenge." He fast-forwarded through the pathetic scene of Mar-
vin Kramer spilling from his wheelchair after the second trial, and
stopped with the smiHng face of a local anchorwoman as she chattered
on about the opening of the third trial of the legendary Sam Cayhall. It
was 1981 now.

"Sam was a free man for thirteen years," Adam said. "What did he
do?"

"He kept to himself, farmed a little, tried to make ends meet. He
never talked to me about the bombing or any of his Klan activities, but
he enjoyed the attention in Clanton. He was somewhat of a local legend
down there, and he was sort of smug about it. Mother's health declined,
and he stayed at home and took care of her."

"He never thought about leaving?"

"Not seriously. He was convinced his legal problems were over. He'd
had two trials, and walked away from both of them. No jury in Missis-
sippi was going to convict a Klansman in the late sixties. He thought he
was invincible. He stayed close to Clanton, avoided the Klan, and lived a
peaceful life. I thought he'd spend his golden years growing tomatoes
and fishing for bream."

"Did he ever ask about my father?"

She finished her wine and placed the glass on the table. It had never
occurred to Lee that she would one day be asked to recall in detail so
much of this sad little history. She had worked so hard to forget it. "I
remember during the first year he was back home, he would occasion-
ally ask me if I'd heard from my brother. Of course, I hadn't. We knew
you guys were somewhere in California, and we hoped you were okay.
Sam's a very proud and stubborn person, Adam. He would never con-
sider chasing you guys down and begging Eddie to come home. If Eddie
was ashamed of his family, then Sam felt like he should stay in Califor-
nia." She paused and sunk lower into the sofa. "Mother was diagnosed
with cancer in 1973, and I hired a private investigator to find Eddie. He

THECHAMBER 107

worked for six months, charged me a bunch of money, and found noth-
ing."

"I was nine years old, fourth grade, that was in Salem, Oregon."

"Yeah. Evelyn told me later that you guys spent time in Oregon."

"We moved all the time. Every year was a different school until I was
in the eighth grade. Then we settled in Santa Monica."

"You were elusive. Eddie mustVe hired a good lawyer, because any
trace of Cayhall was eliminated. The investigator even used some people
out there, but nothing."

"When did she die?"

"Nineteen seventy-seven. We were actually sitting in the front of the
church, about to start the funeral, when Eddie slid in a side door and sat
behind me. Don't ask how he knew about Mother's death. He simply
appeared in Clanton then disappeared again. Never said a word to Sam.
Drove a rental car so no one could check his plates. I drove to Memphis
the next day, and there he was, waiting in my driveway. We drank coffee
for two hours and talked about everything. He had school pictures of
you and Carmen, everything was just wonderful in sunny Southern
California. Good job, nice house in the suburbs, Evelyn was selling real
estate. The American dream. Said he would never return to Mississippi,
not even for Sam's funeral. After swearing me to secrecy, he told me
about the new names, and he gave me his phone number. Not his
address, just his phone number. Any breach of secrecy, he threatened,
and he would simply disappear again. He told me not to call him,
though, unless it was an emergency. I told him I wanted to see you and
Carmen, and he said that it might happen, one day. At times he was the
same old Eddie, and at times he was another person. We hugged and
waved good-bye, and I never saw him again."

Adam flipped the remote and the video moved. The clear, modern
images of the third and fmal trial moved by quickly, and there was Sam,
suddenly thirteen years older, with a new lawyer as they darted through
a side door of the Lakehead County Courthouse. "Did you go to the
third trial?"

"No. He told me to stay away."

Adam paused the video. "At what point did Sam realize they were
coming after him again?"

"It's hard to say. There was a small story in the Memphis paper one
day about this new district attorney in GreenviUe who wanted to reopen
the Kramer case. It was not a big story, just a couple of paragraphs in the
middle of the paper. I remember reading it with horror. I read it ten
times and stared at it for an hour. After all these years, the name Sam
Cayhall was once again in the paper. I couldn't believe it. I called him,

108 JOHN GRISHAM

and, of course, he had read it too. He said not to worry. About two
weeks later there was another story, a Httle larger this time, with David
McAllister's face in the middle of it. I called Daddy, he said everything
was okay. That's how it got started. Rather quietly, then it just steam-
rolled. The Kramer family supported the idea, then the NAACP got
involved. One day it became obvious that McAllister was determined to
push for a new trial, and that it was not going to go away. Sam was
sickened by it, and he was scared, but he tried to act brave. He'd won
twice he said, he could do it again."

"Did you call Eddie?"

"Yeah. Once it was obvious there would be a new indictment, I called
him and broke the news. He didn't say much, didn't say much at all. It
was a brief conversation, and I promised to keep him posted. I don't
think he took it very well. It wasn't long before it became a national
story, and I'm sure Eddie followed it in the media."

They watched the remaining segments of the third trial in silence.
McAllister's toothsome face was everywhere, and more than once Adam
wished he'd done a bit more editing. Sam was led away for the last time
in handcuffs, and the screen went blank.

"Has anyone else seen this?" Lee asked.

"No. You're the first."

"How did you coUect it all?"

"It took time, a little money, a lot of effort."

"It's incredible."

"When I was a junior in high school, we had this goofy teacher of
political science. He allowed us to haul in newspapers and magazines and
debate the issues of the day. Someone brought a front page story from
the L.A. Times about the upcoming trial of Sam CayhaU in Mississippi.
We kicked it around pretty good, then we watched it closely as it took
place. Everyone, including myself, was quite pleased when he was found
guilty. But there was a huge debate over the death penalty. A few weeks
later, my father was dead and you finally told me the truth. I was horri-
fied that my friends would find out."

"Did they?"

"Of course not. I'm a CayhaU, a master at keeping secrets."

"It won't be a secret much longer."

"No, it won't."

There was a long pause as they stared at the blank screen. Adam finally
pushed the power button and the television went off. He tossed the
remote control on the table. "I'm sorry, Lee, if this wiU embarrass you. I
mean it. I wish there was some way to avoid it."

"You don't understand."

THE CHAMBER 109

"I know. And you can't explain it, right? Are you afraid of Phelps and
his family?"

"I despise Phelps and his family."

"But you enjoy their money."

"I've earned their money, okay? I've put up with him for twenty-
seven years."

"Are you afraid your litde clubs will ostracize you? That they'll kick
you out of the country clubs?"

"Stop it, Adam."

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's been a weird day. I'm coming out of the
closet, Lee. I'm confronting my past, and I guess I expect everyone to be
as bold. I'm sorry."

"What does he look like?"

"A very old man. Lots of wrinkles and pale skin. He's too old to be
locked up in a cage."

"I remember talking to him a few days before his last trial. I asked him
why he didn't just run away, vanish into the night and hide in some
place Uke South America. And you know what?"

"What?"

"He said he thought about it. Mother had been dead for several years.
Eddie was gone. He had read books about Mengele and Eichmann and
other Nazi war criminals who disappeared in South America. He even
mentioned Sao Paulo, said it was a city of twenty million and filled with
refugees of all sorts. He had a friend, another Klansman I think, who
could fix the paperwork and help him hide. He gave it a lot of thought."

"I wish he had. Maybe my father would stiU be with us."

"Two days before he went to Parchman, I saw him in the jail in
Greenville. It was our last visit. I asked him why he hadn't run. He said
he never dreamed he would get the death penalty. I couldn't believe that
for years he'd been a free man and could've easily run away. It was a big
mistake, he said, not running. A mistake that would cost him his life."

Adam placed the popcorn bowl on the table, and slowly leaned
toward her. His head rested on her shoulder. She took his hand. "I'm
sorry you're in the middle of this," she whispered.

"He looked so pitiful sitting there in a red death row jumpsuit."

TWELVE

CLYDE PACKER poured a generous serving of a strong brew
into a cup with his name on it, and began filling out the morn-
ing's paperwork. He had worked the Row for twenty-one
years, the last seven as the Shift Commander. For eight hours each
morning, he would be one of four Tier Sergeants, in charge of fourteen
condemned men, two guards, and two trustees. He completed his forms
and checked a clipboard. There was a note to call the warden. Another
note said that F. M. Dempsey was low on heart pills and wanted to see
the doctor. They all wanted to see the doctor. He sipped the steaming
coffee as he left the office for his morning inspection. He checked the
uniforms of two guards at the front door and told the young white one
to get a haircut.

MSU was not a bad place to work. As a general rule, death row
inmates were quiet and well behaved. They spent twenty-three hours a
day alone in their cells, separated from each other and thus unable to
instigate trouble. They spent sixteen hours a day sleeping. They were fed
in their cells. They were allowed an hour of outdoor recreation per day,
their "hour out" as they called it, and they could have this time alone if
they chose. Everyone had either a television or a radio, or both, and after
breakfast the four tiers came to life with music and news and soap operas
and quiet conversations through the bars. The inmates could not see
their neighbors next door, but they conversed with little trouble. Argu-
ments erupted occasionally over the volume of someone's music, but
these little spats were quickly settled by the guards. The inmates had

THE CHAMBER 111

certain rights, and then they had certain privileges. The removal of a
television or a radio was devastating.

The Row bred an odd camaraderie among those sentenced there.
Half were white, half were black, and all had been convicted of brutal
killings. But there was little concern about past deeds and criminal
records, and generally no real interest in skin color. Out in the general
prison population, gangs of all varieties did an effective job of classifying
inmates, usually on the basis of race. On the Row, however, a man was
judged by the way he handled his confinement. Whether they liked each
other or not, they were all locked together in this tiny corner of the
world, all waiting to die. It was a ragtag little fraternity of inisfits, drifters,
outright thugs, and cold-blooded killers.

And the death of one could mean the death of all. The news of Sam's
new death sentence was whispered along the tiers and through the bars.
When it made the noon news yesterday, the Row became noticeably
quieter. Every inmate suddenly wanted to talk to his lawyer. There was a
renewed interest in all matters legal, and Packer had noticed several of
them plowing through their court files with televisions off and radios
down.

He eased through a heavy door, took a long drink, and walked slowly
and quietly along Tier A. Fourteen identical cells, six feet wide and nine
feet deep, faced the haUway. The front of each cell was a wall of iron
bars, so that at no time did an inmate have complete privacy. Anything
he happened to be doing — sleeping, using the toilet — was subject to
observation by the guards.

They were all in bed as Packer slowed in front of each little room and
looked for a head under the sheets. The cell lights were off and the tier
was dark. The hall man, an inmate with special privileges, would wake
them, or rack-'em-up, at five. Breakfast would be served at six — eggs,
toast, jam, sometimes bacon, coffee, and fruit juice. In a few minutes the
Row would slowly come to Hfe as forty-seven men shook ofT their sleep
and resumed the interminable process of dying. It happened slowly, one
day at a time, as another miserable sunrise brought another blanket of
heat into their private little pockets of hell. And it happened quickly, as
it had the day before, when a court somewhere rejected a plea or a
motion or an appeal and said that an execution must happen soon.

Packer sipped coffee and counted heads and shufHed quietly along
through his morning ritual. Generally, MSU ran smoothly when rou-
tines were unbroken and schedules were followed. There were lots of
rules in the manual, but they were fair and easy to follow. Everyone
knew them. But an execution had its own handbook with a different
policy and fluctuating guidelines that generally upset the tranquility of

112 JOHN GRISHAM

the Row. Packer had great respect for Phillip Naifeh, but damned if he
didn't rewrite the book before and after each execution. There was great
pressure to do it aU properly and constitutionally and compassionately.
No two killings had been the same.

Packer hated executions. He beHeved in the death penalty because he
was a rehgious man, and when God said an eye for an eye, then God
meant it. He preferred, however, that they be carried out somewhere
else by other people. Fortunately, they had been so rare in Mississippi
that his job proceeded smoothly with little interference. He'd been
through fifteen in twenty-one years, but only four since 1982.

He spoke quietly to a guard at the end of the tier. The sun was
beginning to peek through the open windows above the tier walkway.
The day would be hot and suffocating. It would also be much quieter.
There would be fewer complaints about the food, fewer demands to see
the doctor, a scattering of gripes about this and that, but on the whole
they would be a docile and preoccupied group. It had been at least a year
and maybe longer since a stay had been withdrawn this close to an
execution. Packer smiled to himself as he searched for a head under the
sheets. This day would indeed be a quiet one.

During the first few months of Sam's career on the Row, Packer had
ignored him. The official handbook prohibited anything other than nec-
essary contact with inmates, and Packer had found Sam an easy person to
leave alone. He was a Klansman. He hated blacks. He said little. He was
bitter and surly, at least in the early days. But the routine of doing
nothing for eight hours a day gradually softens the edges, and with time
they reached a level of communication that consisted of a handful of
short words and grunts. After nine and a half years of seeing each other
every day, Sam could on occasion actually grin at Packer.

There were two types of killers on the Row, Packer had decided after
years of study. There were the cold-blooded killers who would do it
again if given the chance, and there were those who simply made mis-
takes and would never dream of shedding more blood. Those in the first
group should be gassed quickly. Those in the second group caused great
discomfort for Packer because their executions served no purpose. Soci-
ety would not suffer or even notice if these men were released from
prison. Sam was a solid member of the second group. He could be
returned to his home where he would soon die a lonesome death. No,
Packer did not want Sam Cayhall executed.

He shuffled back along Tier A, sipping his coffee and looking at the
dark cells. His tier was the nearest to the Isolation Room, which was
next door to the Chamber Room. Sam was in number six on Tier A,
literally less than ninety feet from the gas chamber. He had requested a

THE CHAMBER 113

move a few years back because of some silly squabble with Cecil Duff,
then his next-door neighbor.

Sam was now sitting in the dark on the edge of his bed. Packer
stopped, walked to the bars. "Mornin', Sam," he said softly.

"Mornin'," Sam replied, squinting at Packer. Sam then stood in the
center of his room and faced the door. He was wearing a dingy white tee
shirt and baggy boxer shorts, the usual attire for inmates on the Row
because it was so hot. The rules required the bright red coveralls to be
worn outside the cell, but inside they wore as Httle as possible.

"It's gonna be a hot one," Packer said, the usual early morning greet-
ing.

"Wait till August," Sam said, the standard reply to the usual early
morning greeting.

"You okay?" Packer asked.

"Never felt better."

"Your lawyer said he was coming back today."

"Yeah. That's what he said. I guess I need lots of lawyers, huh.
Packer?"

"Sure looks that way." Packer took a sip of coffee and glanced down
the tier. The windows behind him were to the south, and a trickle of
sunlight was making its way through. "See you later, Sam," he said and
eased away. He checked the remaining cells and found all his boys. The
doors clicked behind him as he left Tier A and returned to the front.

THE ONE LIGHT in the cell was above the stainless steel sink — made
of stainless steel so it couldn't be chipped and then used as a weapon or
suicide device. Under the sink was a stainless steel toilet. Sam turned on
his light and brushed his teeth. It was almost five-thirty. Sleep had been
difficult.

He ht a cigarette and sat on the edge of his bed, studying his feet and
staring at the painted concrete floor that somehow retained heat in the
summer and cold in the winter. His only shoes, a pair of rubber shower
shoes which he loathed, were under the bed. He owned one pair of
wool socks, which he slept in during the winter. His remaining assets
consisted of a black and white television, a radio, a typewriter, six tee
shirts with holes, five pairs of plain white boxer shorts, a toothbrush,
comb, nail clippers, an oscillating fan, and a twelve-month wall calendar.
His most valuable asset was a collection of law books he had gathered
and memorized over the years. They were also placed neatly on the
cheap wooden shelves across from his bunk. In a cardboard box on the
floor between the shelves and the door was an accumulation of bulky

114 JOHN GRISHAM

files, the chronological legal history of State of Mississippi v. Sam Cayhall.
It, too, had been committed to memory.

His balance sheet was lean and short, and other than the death warrant
there were no HabiHties. The poverty had bothered him at first, but those
concerns were dispelled years ago. Family legend held that his great-
grandfather had been a wealthy man with acreage and slaves, but no
modern CayhaU was worth much. He had known condemned men who
had agonized over their wills as if their heirs would brawl over their old
televisions and dirty magazines. He was considering preparing his own
Last Will and Testament and leaving his wool socks and dirty underwear
to the State of Mississippi, or perhaps the NAACP.

To his right was J. B. GuUitt, an ilHterate white kid who'd raped and
killed a homecoming queen. Three years earHer, GuUitt had come
within days of execution before Sam intervened with a crafty motion.
Sam pointed out several unresolved issues, and explained to the Fifth
Circuit that GuUitt had no lawyer. A stay was immediately granted, and
GuUitt became a friend for life.

To his left was Hank Henshaw, the reputed leader of a long-forgotten
band of thugs known as the Redneck Mafia. Hank and his motley gang
had hijacked an eighteen-wheeler one night, planning only to steal its
cargo. The driver produced a gun, and was kiUed in the ensuing
shootout. Hank's family was paying good lawyers, and thus he was not
expected to die for many years.

The three neighbors referred to their Uttle section of MSU as Rhode-
sia.

Sam flipped the cigarette into the toilet and reclined on his bed. The
day before the Kramer bombing he had stopped at Eddie's house in
Clanton, he couldn't remember why except that he did deUver some
fresh spinach firom his garden, and he had played with Httle Alan, now
Adam, for a few minutes in the front yard. It was April, and warm, he
remembered, and his grandson was barefoot. He remembered the
chubby Httle feet with a Band- Aid around one toe. He had cut it on a
rock, Alan had explained with great pride. The kid loved Band-Aids,
always had one on a finger or a knee. Evelyn held the spinach and shook
her head as he proudly shovv^ed his grandfather a whole box of assorted
adhesives.

That was the last time he had seen Alan. The bombing took place the
next day, and Sam spent the next ten months in jail. By the time the
second trial was over and he was released, Eddie and his family were
gone. He had too much pride to give chase. There had been rumors and
gossip of their whereabouts. Lee said they were in CaUfornia, but she

THE CHAMBER 115

couldn't find them. Years later, she talked to Eddie and learned of the
second child, a girl named Carmen.

There were voices at the end of the tier. Then the flush of a toilet,
then a radio. Death row was creaking to life. Sam combed his oily hair,
lit another Montclair, and studied the calendar on the wall. Today was
July 12. He had twenty-seven days.

He sat on the edge of his bed and studied his feet some more. J. B.
Gullitt turned on his television to catch the news, and as Sam puffed and
scratched his ankles he Hstened to the NBC affiliate in Jackson. After the
rundown of local shootings, robberies, and killings, the anchorman de-
livered the hot news that an execution was materializing up at Parchman.
The Fifth Circuit, he reported eagerly, had lifted the stay for Sam
Cayhall, Parchman's most famous inmate, and the date was now set for
August 8. Authorities beHeve that CayhaU's appeals have been exhausted,
the voice said, and the execution could take place.

Sam turned on his television. As usual, the audio preceded the picture
by a good ten seconds, and he listened as the Attorney General himself
predicted justice for Mr. Cayhall, after aU these many years. A grainy face
formed on the screen, with words spewing forth, and then there was
Roxburgh smiling and frowning at the same time, deep in thought as he
reUshed for the cameras the scenario of finally hauling Mr. CayhaU into
the gas chamber. Back to the anchorperson, a local kid with a peach fuzz
mustache, who wrapped up the story by blitzing through Sam's horrible
crime while over his shoulder in the background was a crude illustration
of a Klansman in a mask and pointed hood. A gun, a burning cross, and
the letters KKK finished the depiction. The kid repeated the date, Au-
gust 8, as if his viewers should circle their calendars and plan to take the
day off. Then they were on to the weather.

He turned off the television, and walked to the bars.

"Did you hear it, Sam?" GuUitt called out from next door.

"Yep."

"It's gonna get crazy, man."

"Yep."

"Look on the bright side, man."

"What's that?"

"You've only got four weeks of it." Gullitt chuckled as he hit this
punch line, but he didn't laugh long. Sam pulled some papers from the
file and sat on the edge of his bed. There were no chairs in the cell. He
read through Adam's agreement of representation, a two-page document
with a page and a half of language. On all margins, Sam had made neat,
precise notes with a pencil. And he had added paragraphs on the backs of
the sheets. Another idea hit him, and he found room to add it. With a

116 JOHN GRISHAM

cigarette in his right fingers, he held the document with his left and read
it again. And again.

Finally, Sam reached to his shelves and carefuUy took down his an-
cient Royal portable typewriter. He balanced it perfectly on his knees.
He inserted a sheet of paper, and began typing.

AT TEN MINUTES after six, the doors on the north end of Tier A
cHcked and opened, and two guards entered the hallway. One pushed a
cart with fourteen trays stacked neatly in slots. They stopped at cell
number one, and slid the metal tray through a narrow opening in the
door. The occupant of number one was a skinny Cuban who was wait-
ing at the bars, shirtless in his drooping briefs. He grabbed the tray like a
starving refugee, and without a word took it to the edge of his bed.

This morning's menu was two scrambled eggs, four pieces of toasted
white bread, a fat slice of bacon, two scrawny containers of grape jelly, a
small bottle of prepackaged orange juice, and a large Styrofoam cup of
coffee. The food was warm and filling, and had the distinction of being
approved by the federal courts.

They moved to the next cell where the inmate was waiting. They
were always waiting, always standing by the door like hungry dogs.

"You're eleven minutes late," the inmate said quietly as he took his
tray. The guards did not look at him.

"Sue us," one said.

"I've got my rights."

"Your rights are a pain in the ass."

"Don't talk to me that way. I'll sue you for it. You're abusive."

The guards rolled away to the next door with no further response. Just
part of the daily ritual.

Sam was not waiting at the door. He was busy at work in his little law
office when breakfast arrived.

"I figured you'd be typing," a guard said as they stopped in front of
number six. Sam slowly placed the typewriter on the bed.

"Love letters," he said as he stood.

"Well, whatever you're typing, Sam, you'd better hurry. The cook's
already talking about your last meal."

"TeU him I want microwave pizza. He'U probably screw that up.
Maybe I'U just go for hot dogs and beans." Sam took his tray through the
opening.

"It's your call, Sam. Last guy wanted steak and shrimp. Can you
imagine? Steak and shrimp around this place."

"Did he get it?"

"No. He lost his appetite and they filled him full of Valium instead."

THE CHAMBER 117

"Not a bad way to go."

"Quiet!" J. B. Gullitt yelled from the next cell. The guards eased the
cart a few feet down the tier and stopped in front of J.B., who was
gripping the bars with both hands. They kept their distance.

"Well, well, aren't we frisky this morning?" one said.

"Why can't you assholes just serve the food in silence? I mean, do you
think we want to wake up each morning and start the day by listening to
your cute Httle comments? Just give me the food, man."

"Gee, J.B. We're awful sorry. We just figured you guys were lonely."

"You figured wrong." J.B. took his tray and turned away.

"Touchy, touchy," a guard said as they moved away in the direction of
someone else to torment.

Sam sat his food on the bed and mixed a packet of sugar in his coffee.
His daily routine did not include scrambled eggs and bacon. He would
save the toast and jelly and eat it throughout the morning. He would
carefully sip the coffee, rationing it until ten o'clock, his hour of exercise
and sunshine.

He balanced the typewriter on his knees, and began pecking away.

THIRTEEN

SAM'S VERSION of the law was finished by nine-thirty. He was
proud of it, one of his better efforts in recent months. He
munched on a piece of toast as he proofed the document for the
last time. The typing was neat but outdated, the result of an ancient
machine. The language was effusive and repetitive, flowery and fiUed
with words never uttered by humble laymen. Sam was almost fluent in
legalese and could hold his own vv^ith any lawyer.

A door at the end of the hallway banged open, then shut. Heavy
footsteps cHcked along properly, and Packer appeared. "Your lawyer's
here, Sam," he said, removing a set of handcuffs from his belt.

Sam stood and puUed up his boxer shorts. "What time is it?"

"A little after nine-thirty. What difference does it make?"

"I'm supposed to get my hour out at ten."

"You wanna go outside, or you wanna see your lawyer?"

Sam thought about this as he slipped into his red jumpsuit and sHd his
feet into his rubber sandals. Dressing was a swift procedure on death row.
"Can I make it up later?"

"We'U see."

"I want my hour out, you know."

"I kno^v, Sam. Let's go."

"It's real important to me."

"I know, Sam. It's real important to everyone. We'U try and make it
up later, okay?"

Sam combed his hair with great dehberation, then rinsed his hands
with cold water. Packer waited patiently. He wanted to say something to

THECHAMBER 119

J. B. Gullitt, something about the mood he was in this morning, but
GuUitt was already asleep again. Most of them were asleep. The average
inmate on death row made it through breakfast and an hour or so of
television before stretching out for the morning nap. Though his study
was by no means scientific, Packer estimated they slept fifteen to sixteen
hours a day. And they could sleep in the heat, the sweat, the cold, and
amid the noise of loud televisions and radios.

The noise was much lower this morning. The fans hummed and
whined, but there was no yelling back and forth.

Sam approached the bars, turned his back to Packer, and extended
both hands through the narrow slot in the door. Packer applied the
handcuffs, and Sam walked to his bed and picked up the document.
Packer nodded to a guard at the end of the hall, and Sam's door opened
electronically. Then it closed.

Leg chains were optional in these situations, and with a younger pris-
oner, perhaps one with an attitude and a bit more stamina. Packer proba-
bly would have used them. But this was just Sam. He was an old man.
How far could he run? How much damage could he do with his feet?

Packer gently placed his hand around Sam's skinny bicep and led him
along the hall. They stopped at the tier door, a row of more bars, waited
for it to open and close, and left Tier A. Another guard followed behind
as they came to an iron door which Packer unlocked with a key from his
belt. They walked through it, and there was Adam sitting alone on the
other side of the green grating.

Packer removed the handcuffs and left the room.

ADAM READ IT SLOWLY the first time. During the second reading
he took a few notes and was amused at some of the language. He'd seen
worse work from trained lawyers. And he'd seen much better work. Sam
was suffering the same affliction that hit most first-year law students. He
used six words when one would suffice. His Latin was dreadful. Entire
paragraphs were useless. But, on the whole, not bad for a non-lawyer.

The two-page agreement was now four, typed neatly with perfect
margins and only two typos and one misspelled word.

"You do pretty good work," Adam said as he placed the document on
the counter. Sam puffed a cigarette and stared at him through the open-
ing. "It's basically the same agreement I handed you yesterday."

"It's basically a helluva lot different," Sam said, correcting him.

Adam glanced at his notes, then said, "You seem to be concerned
about five areas. The governor, books, movies, termination, and who
gets to witness the execution."

120 JOHN GRISHAM

"I'm concerned about a lot of things. Those happen to be non-
negotiable."

"I promised yesterday I would have nothing to do with books and
movies."

"Good. Moving right along."

"The termination language is fine. You want the right to terminate
my representation, and that of Kravitz & Bane, at any time and for any
reason, without a fight."

"It took me a long time to fire those Jewish bastards last time. I don't
want to go through it again."

"That's reasonable."

"I don't care whether you think it's reasonable, okay? It's in the
agreement, and it's non-negotiable."

"Fair enough. And you want to deal with no one but me."

"That's correct. No one at Kravitz & Bane touches my file. That
place is crawHng with Jew^s, and they don't get involved, okay? Same for
niggers and women."

"Look, Sam, can we lay off the slurs? How about we refer to them as
blacks?"

"Ooops. Sorry. How about we do the right thing and call them
African- Americans and Jewish- Americans and Female- Americans? You
and I'll be Irish-Americans, and also White-Male- Americans. If you
need help from your firm, try to stick with German-Americans or Ital-
ian-Americans. Since you're in Chicago, maybe use a few PoHsh-Ameri-
cans. Gee, that'll be nice, won't it? We'U be real proper and multicultural
and politically correct, won't we?"

"Whatever."

"I feel better already."

Adam made a check mark by his notes. "I'U agree to it."

"Damned right you will, if you want an agreement. Just keep the
minorities out of my Hfe."

"You're assuming they're anxious to jump in."

"I'm not assuming anything. I have four weeks to live, and I'd rather
spend my time with people I trust."

Adam read again a paragraph on page three of Sam's draft. The lan-
guage gave Sam the sole authority to select two witnesses at his execu-
tion. "I don't understand this clause about the witnesses," Adam said.

"It's very simple. If we get to that point, there will be about fifteen
witnesses. Since I'm the guest of honor, I get to select two. The statute,
once you've had a chance to review it, lists a few who must be present.
The warden, a Lebanese-American by the way, has some discretion in

THE CHAMBER 121

picking the rest. They usually conduct a lottery with the press to choose
which of the vultures are allowed to gawk at it."

"Then why do you want this clause?"

"Because the lawyer is always one of the two chosen by the gassee.
That's me."

"And you don't want me to witness the execution?"

"That's correct."

"You're assuming I'll want to witness it."

"I'm not assuming anything. It's just a fact that the lawyers can't wait
to see their poor clients gassed once it becomes inevitable. Then they
can't wait to get in front of the cameras and cry and carry on and rail
against injustice."

"And you think I'll do that?"

"No. I don't think you'll do that."

"Then, why this clause?"

Sam leaned forward with his elbows on the counter. His nose was an
inch from the screen. "Because you will not witness the execution,
okay?"

"It's a deal," he said casually, and flipped to another page. "We're not
going to get that far, Sam."

"Atta boy. That's what I want to hear."

"Of course, we may need the governor."

Sam snorted in disgust and relaxed in his chair. He crossed his right
leg on his left knee, and glared at Adam. "The agreement is very plain."

Indeed it was. Almost an entire page was dedicated to a venomous
attack on David McAllister. Sam forgot about the law and used words
like scurrilous and egotistical and narcissistic and mentioned more than
once the insatiable appetite for pubHcity.

"So you have a problem with the governor," Adam said.

Sam snorted.

"I don't think this is a good idea, Sam."

"I really don't care what you think."

"The governor could save your life."

"Oh really. He's the only reason I'm here, on death row, waiting to
die, in the gas chamber. Why in hell would he want to save my life?"

"I didn't say he wanted to. I said that he could. Let's keep our options
open."

Sam smirked for a long minute as he lit a cigarette. He blinked and
rolled his eyes as if this kid was the dumbest human he'd encountered in
decades. Then he leaned forward on his left elbow and pointed at Adam
with a crooked right fmger. "If you think David McAlhster will grant
me a last minute pardon, then you're a fool. But let me tell you what he

122 JOHNGRISHAM

will do. He'll use you, and me, to suck out all the publicity imaginable.
He'll invite you to his office at the state capitol, and before you get there
he'U tip off the media. He'U Hsten with remarkable sincerity. He'll pro-
fess grave reservations about whether I should die. He'U schedule an-
other meeting, closer to the execution. And after you leave, he'll hold a
couple of interviews and divulge everything you've just told him. He'U
rehash the Kramer bombing. He'U talk about civU rights and aU that
radical nigger crap. He'U probably even cry. The closer I get to the gas
chamber, the bigger the media circus wiU become. He'U try every way
in the world to get in the middle of it. He'U meet with you every day, if
we aUow it. He'U take us to the w^ire."

"He can do this without us."

"And he wiU. Mark my word, Adam. An hour before I die, he'U hold
a press conference somewhere — probably here, maybe at the governor's
mansion — and he'U stand there in the glare of a hundred cameras and
deny me clemency. And the bastard wiU have tears in his eyes."

"It won't hurt to talk to him."

"Fine. Go talk to him. And after you do, I'U invoke paragraph two
and your ass'U go back to Chicago."

"He might like me. We could be friends."

"Oh, he'U love you. You're Sam's grandson. What a great story! More
reporters, more cameras, more journaUsts, more interviews. He'd love to
make your acquaintance so he can string you along. HeU, you might get
him reelected."

Adam flipped another page, made some more notes, and staUed for a
while in an effort to move away from the governor. "Where'd you learn
to write like this?" he asked.

"Same place you did. I was taught by the same learned souls who
provided your instruction. Dead judges. Honorable justices. Windy law-
yers. Tedious professors. I've read the same garbage you've read."

"Not bad," Adam said, scanning another paragraph.

"I'm delighted you think so."

"I understand you have quite a little practice here."

"Practice. What's a practice? Why do lawyers practice? Why can't
they just work like everyone else? Do plumbers practice? Do truck driv-
ers practice? No, they simply work. But not lawyers. HeU no. They're
special, and they practice. With aU their damned practicing you'd think
they'd know what the heU they were doing. You'd think they'd eventu-
aUy become good at something."

"Do you like anyone?"

"That's an idiotic question."

"Why is it idiotic?"

THECHAMBER 123

"Because you're sitting on that side of the wall. And you can walk out
that door and drive away. And tonight you can have dinner in a nice
restaurant and sleep in a soft bed. Life's a bit different on this side. I'm
treated like an animal. I have a cage. I have a death sentence which
allows the State of Mississippi to kill me in four weeks, and so yes, son,
it's hard to be loving and compassionate. It's hard to Hke people these
days. That's why your question is foolish."

"Are you saying you were loving and compassionate before you ar-
rived here?"

Sam stared through the opening and puffed on the cigarette. "Another
stupid question."

"Why?"

"It's irrelevant, counselor. You're a lawyer, not a shrink."

"I'm your grandson. Therefore, I'm allowed to ask questions about
your past."

"Ask them. They might not be answered."

"Why not?"

"The past is gone, son. It's history. We can't undo what's been done.
Nor can we explain it all."

"But I don't have a past."

"Then you are indeed a lucky person."

"I'm not so sure."

"Look, if you expect me to fill in the gaps, then I'm afraid you've got
the wrong person."

"Okay. Who else should I talk to?"

"I don't know. It's not important."

"Maybe it's important to me."

"Well, to be honest, I'm not too concerned about you right now.
Believe it or not, I'm much more worried about me. Me and my future.
Me and my neck. There's a big clock ticking somewhere, ticking rather
loudly, wouldn't you say? For some strange reason, don't ask me why,
but I can hear the damned thing and it makes me real anxious. I fmd it
very difficult to worry about the problems of others."

"Why did you become a Klansman?"

"Because my father was in the Klan."

"Why did he become a Klansman?"

"Because his father was in the Klan."

"Great. Three generations."

"Four, I think. Colonel Jacob Cayhall fought with Nathan Bedford
Forrest in the war, and family legend has it that he was one of the early
members of the Klan. He was my great-grandfather."

"You're proud of this?"

124 JOHN GRISHAM

"Is that a question?"

"Yes."

"It's not a matter of pride." Sam nodded at the counter. "Are you
going to sign that agreement?"

"Yes."

"Then do it."

Adam signed at the bottom of the back page and handed it to Sam.
"You're asking questions that are very confidential. As my lawyer, you
cannot breathe a word."

"I understand the relationship."

Sam signed his name next to Adam's, then studied the signatures.
"When did you become a Hall?"

"A month before my fourth birthday. It was a family affair. We were
all converted at the same time. Of course, I don't remember."

"Why did he stick with Hall? Why not make a clean break and go
with MiUer or Green or something?"

"Is that a question?"

"No."

"He was running, Sam. And he was burning bridges as he went. I
guess four generations was enough for him."

Sam placed the contract in a chair beside him, and methodically Ht
another cigarette. He exhaled at the ceiling and stared at Adam. "Look,
Adam," he said slowly, his voice suddenly much softer. "Let's lay off the
family stuff for a while, okay. Maybe we'U get around to it later. Right
now I need to know what's about to happen to me. What are my
chances, you know? Stuff Hke that. How do you stop the clock? What
do you file next?"

"Depends on several things, Sam. Depends on how much you teU me
about the bombing."

"I don't follow."

"If there are new facts, then we present them. There are ways, believe
me. We'll find a judge who'U Hsten."

"What kind of new facts?"

Adam flipped to a clean page on his pad, and scribbled the date in the
margin. "Who deHvered the green Pontiac to Cleveland on the night
before the bombing?"

"I don't know. One of Dogan's men."

"You don't know his name?"

"No."

"Come on, Sam."

"1 swear. I don't know who did it. I never saw the man. The car was

THE CHAMBER 125

delivered to a parking lot. I found it. I was supposed to leave it where I
found it. I never saw the man who delivered it."

"Why wasn't he discovered during the trials?"

"How am I supposed to know? He was just a minor accomplice, I
guess. They were after me. Why bother with a gopher? I don't know."

"Kramer was bombing number six, right?"

"I think so." Sam leaned forward again with his face almost touching
the screen. His voice was low, his words carefuDy chosen as if someone
might be listening somewhere.

"You think so?"

"It was a long time ago, okay." He closed his eyes and thought for a
moment. "Yeah, number six."

"The FBI said it was number six."

"Then that settles it. They're always right."

"Was the same green Pontiac used in one or all of the prior bomb-
ings?"

"Yes. In a couple, as I remember. We used more than one car."

"All supplied by Dogan?"

"Yes. He was a car dealer."

"I know. Did the same man deliver the Pontiac for the prior bomb-
ings?"

"I never saw or met anyone delivering the cars for the bombings.
Dogan didn't work that way. He was extremely careful,^.and his plans
were detailed. I don't know this for a fact, but I'm certain that the man
delivering the cars didn't have a clue as to who I was."

"Did the cars come with the dynamite?"

"Yes. Always. Dogan had enough guns and explosives for a small war.
Feds never found his arsenal either."

"Where'd you learn about explosives?"

"KKK boot camp and the basic training manual."

"Probably hereditary, wasn't it?"

"No, it wasn't."

"I'm serious. How'd you learn to detonate explosives?"

"It's very basic and simple. Any fool could pick it up in thirty min-
utes."

"Then with a bit of practice you're an expert."

"Practice helps. It's not much more difficult than lighting a fire-
cracker. You strike a match, any match will do, and you place it at the
end of a long fuse until the fuse Hghts. Then you run Hke hell. If you're
lucky, it won't blow up for about fifteen minutes."

"And this is something that is just sort of absorbed by all Klansmen?"

"Most of the ones I knew could handle it."

126 JOHNGRISHAM

"Do you still know any Klansmen?"

"No. They've abandoned me."

Adam watched his face carefully. The fierce blue eyes were steady.
The 'wrinkles didn't move. There was no emotion, no feeHng or sorrow^
or anger. Sam returned the stare without bHnking.

Adam returned to his notepad. "On March 2, 1967, the Hirsch Tem-
ple in Jackson was bombed. Did you do it?"

"Get right to the point, don't you?"

"It's an easy question."

Sam twisted the filter between his lips and thought for a second.
"Why is it important?"

"Just answer the damned question," Adam snapped. "It's too late to
play games."

"I've never been asked that question before."

"WeU I guess today's your big day. A simple yes or no will do."

"Yes."

"Did you use the green Pontiac?"

"I think so."

"Who was with you?"

"What makes you think someone was with me?"

"Because a witness said he saw a green Pontiac speed by a few minutes
before the explosion. And he said two people were in the car. He even
made a tentative identification of you as the driver."

"Ah, yes. Our Httle friend Bascar. I read about him in the newspa-
pers.

"He was near the corner of Fortification and State streets when you
and your pal rushed by."

"Of course he was. And he'd just left a bar at three in the morning,
drunk as a goat, and stupid as hell to begin with. Bascar, as I'm sure you
know, never made it near a courtroom, never placed his hand on a Bible
and swore to tell the truth, never faced a cross-examination, never came
forward until after I was under arrest in Greenville and half the world
had seen pictures of the green Pontiac. His tentative identification oc-
curred only after my face had been plastered all over the papers."

"So he's lying?"

"No, he's probably just ignorant. Keep in mind, Adam, that I was
never charged with that bombing. Bascar was never put under pressure.
He never gave sworn testimony. His story was revealed, I beHeve, when
a reporter with a Memphis newspaper dug through the honky-tonks and
whorehouses long enough to find someone like Bascar."

"Let's try it this way. Did you or did you not have someone with you
when you bombed the Hirsch Temple synagogue on March 2, 1967?"

THECHAMBER 127

Sam's gaze fell a few inches below the opening, then to the counter,
then to the floor. He pushed away slightly from the partition and relaxed
in his chair. Predictably, the blue package of Montclairs was produced
from the front pocket, and he took forever selecting one, then thumping
it on the filter, then inserting it just so between his moist lips. The
striking of the match was another brief ceremony, but one that was
finally accomplished and a fresh fog of smoke lifted toward the ceiling.

Adam watched and waited until it was obvious no quick answer was
forthcoming. The delay in itself was an admission. He tapped his pen
nervously on the legal pad. He took quick breaths and noticed an in-
crease in his heartbeat. His empty stomach was suddenly jittery. Could
this be the break? If there had been an accomplice, then perhaps they
had worked as a team and perhaps Sam had not actually planted the
dynamite that kiUed the Kramers. Perhaps this fact could be presented to
a sympathetic judge somewhere who would listen and grant a stay. Per-
haps. Maybe. Could it be?

"No," Sam said ever so softly but firmly as he looked at Adam
through the opening.

"I don't believe you."

"There was no accomplice."

"I don't believe you, Sam."

Sam shrugged casually as if he couldn't care less. He crossed his legs
and wrapped his fingers around a knee.

Adam took a deep breath, scribbled something routinely as if he'd
been expecting this, and flipped to a clean page. "What time did you
arrive in Cleveland on the night of April 20, 1967?"

"Which time?"

"The first time."

"I left Clanton around six. Drove two hours to Cleveland. So I got
there around eight."

"Where'd you go?"

"To a shopping center."

"Why'd you go there?"

"To get the car."

"The green Pontiac?"

"Yes. But it wasn't there. So I drove to Greenville to look around a
bit."

"Had you been there before?"

"Yes. A couple of weeks earlier, I had scouted the place. I even went
in the Jew's office to get a good look."

"That was pretty stupid, wasn't it? I mean, his secretary identified you

128 JOHNGRISHAM

at trial as the man who came in asking for directions and wanting to use
the rest room."

"Very stupid. But then, I wasn't supposed to get caught. She was
never supposed to see my face again." He bit the filter and sucked hard.
"A very bad move. Of course, it's awfuUy easy to sit here now and
second-guess everything."

"How long did you stay in Greenville?"

"An hour or so. Then I drove back to Cleveland to get the car. Dogan
always had detailed plans with several alternates. The car was parked in
spot B, near a truck stop."

"Where were the keys?"

"Under the mat."

"What did you do?"

"Took it for a drive. Drove out of town, out through some cotton
fields. I found a lonely spot and parked the car. I popped the trunk to
check the dynamite."

"How many sticks?"

"Fifteen, I believe. I was using between twelve and twenty, depending
on the building. Twenty for the synagogue because it was new and
modern and built with concrete and stone. But the Jew's office was an
old wooden structure, and I knew fifteen would level it."

"What else was in the trunk?"

"The usual. A cardboard box of dynamite. Two blasting caps. A fif-
teen-minute fuse."

"Is that aU?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"What about the timing device? The detonator?"

"Oh yeah. I forgot about that. It was in another, smaller box."

"Describe it for me."

"Why? You've read the trial transcripts. The FBI expert did a won-
derful job of reconstructing my little bomb. You've read this, haven't
you?

"Many times."

"And you've seen the photos they used at trial. The ones of the
fragments and pieces of the timer. You've seen all this, haven't you?"

"I've seen it. Where did Dogan get the clock?"

"I never asked. You could buy one in any drugstore. It was just a
cheap, windup alarm clock. Nothing fancy."

"Was this your first job with a timing device?"

THECHAMBER 129

"You know it was. The other bombs were detonated by fuses. Why
are you asking me these questions?"

"Because I want to hear your answers. I've read everything, but I want
to hear it from you. Why did you want to delay the Kramer bomb?"

"Because I was tired of Hghting fuses and running like hell. I wanted a
longer break between planting the bomb and feeHng it go off."

"What time did you plant it?"

"Around 4 a.m."

"What time was it supposed to go off?"

"Around five."

"What went wrong?"

"It didn't go off at five. It went off a few minutes before eight, and
there were people in the building by then, and some of these people got
killed. And that's why I'm sitting here in a red monkey suit wondering
what the gas'U smell like."

"Dogan testified that the selection of Marvin Kramer as a target was a
joint effort between the both of you; that Kramer had been on a Klan hit
list for two years; that the use of a timing device was something you
suggested as a way to kill Kramer because his routine was predictable;
that you acted alone."

Sam listened patiently and puffed on his cigarette. His eyes narrowed
to tiny slits and he nodded at the floor. Then he almost smiled. "Well,
I'm afraid Dogan went crazy, didn't he? Feds hounded him for years, and
he finally caved in. He was not a strong man, you know." He took a
deep breath and looked at Adam. "But some of it's true. Not much, but
some."

"Did you intend to kill him?"

"No. We weren't killing people. Just blowing up buildings."

"What about the Pinder home in Vicksburg? Was that one of yours?"

Sam nodded slowly.

"The bomb went off at four in the morning while the entire Pinder
family was sound asleep. Six people. Miraculously, only one minor in-
jury."

"It wasn't a miracle. The bomb was placed in the garage. If I'd wanted
to kill anyone, I'd have put it by a bedroom window."

"Half the house coUapsed."

"Yeah, and I could' ve used a clock and wiped out a bunch of Jews as
they ate their bagels or whatever."

"Why didn't you?"

"As I said, we weren't trying to kill people."

"What were you trying to do?"

"Intimidate. Retaliate. Keep the damned Jews from financing the civil

130 JOHN GRISHAM

rights movement. We were trying to keep the Africans where they be-
longed— in their own schools and churches and neighborhoods and rest
rooms, away from our women and children. Jews Hke Marvin Kramer
were promoting an interracial society and stirring up the Africans. Son
of a bitch needed to be kept in line."

"You guys reaUy showed him, didn't you?"

"He got what he deserved. I'm sorry about the little boys."

"Your compassion is overwhelming."

"Listen, Adam, and Hsten good. I did not intend to hurt anyone. The
bomb was set to go off at 5 a.m., three hours before he usually arrived for
work. The only reason his kids were there was because his wife had the
flu."

"But you feel no remorse because Marvin lost both legs?"

"Not really."

"No remorse because he killed himself?"

"He pulled the trigger, not me."

"You're a sick man, Sam."

"Yeah, and I'm about to get a lot sicker when I sniff the gas."

Adam shook his head in disgust, but held his tongue. They could
argue later about race and hatred; not that he, at this moment, expected
to make any progress with Sam on these topics. But he was determined
to try. Now, however, they needed to discuss facts.

"After you inspected the dynamite, what did you do?"

"Drove back to the truck stop. Drank coffee."

"Why?"

"Maybe I was thirsty."

"Very funny, Sam. Just try and answer the questions."

"I was waiting."

"For what?"

"I needed to kiU a couple of hours. By then it was around midnight,
and I wanted to spend as little time in Greenville as possible. So, I killed
time in Cleveland."

"Did you talk to anyone in the cafe?"

"No."

"Was it crowded?"

"I really don't remember."

"Did you sit alone?"

"Yes."

"At a table?"

"Yes." Sam managed a slight grin because he knew what was coming.

"A truck driver by the name of Tommy Farris said he saw a man who

THE CHAMBER 131

greatly resembled you in the truck stop that night, and that this man
drank coffee for a long time with a younger man."

"I never met Mr. Farris, but I beHeve he had a lapse of memory for
three years. Not a word to anyone, as I recall, until another reporter
flushed him out and he got his name in the paper. It's amazing how
these mystery witnesses pop up years after the trials."

"Why didn't Farris testify in your last trial?"

"Don't ask me. I suppose it was because he had nothing to say. The
fact that I drank coffee alone or with someone seven hours before the
bombing was hardly relevant. Plus, the coffee drinking took place in
Cleveland, and had nothing to do with whether or not I committed the
crime."

"So Farris was lying?"

"I don't know what Farris was doing. Don't really care. I was alone.
That's all that matters."

"What time did you leave Cleveland?"

"Around three, I think."

"And you drove straight to Greenville?"

"Yes. And I drove by the Kramers' house, saw the guard sitting on the
porch, drove by his office, killed some more time, and around four or so
I parked behind his office, slipped through the rear door, planted the
bomb in a closet in the hallway, walked back to my car, and drove
away."

"What time did you leave Greenville?"

"I had planned to leave after the bomb went off. But, as you know, it
was several months before I actually made it out of town."

"Where did you go when you left Kramer's office?"

"I found a little coffee shop on the highway, a half mile or so from
Kramer's office."

"Why'd you go there?"

"To drink coffee."

"What time was it?"

"I don't know. Around four-thirty or so."

"Was it crowded?"

"A handful of people. Just your run-of-the-mill all-night diner with a
fat cook in a dirty tee shirt and a waitress who smacked her chewing
gum."

"Did you talk to anybody?"

"I spoke to the waitress when I ordered my coffee. Maybe I had a
doughnut."

"And you were having a nice cup of coffee, just minding your own
business, waiting for the bomb to go off."

132 JOHN GRISHAM

"Yeah. I always liked to hear the bombs go off and "watch the people
react."

"So you'd done this before?"

"A couple of times. In February of that year I bombed the real estate
office in Jackson — -Jews had sold a house to some niggers in a white
section — and I had just sat down in a diner not three blocks away when
the bomb went off. I was using a fuse then, so I had to hustle away and
park real fast and find a table. The girl had just sat my coffee down ^vhen
the ground shook and everybody froze. I reaUy liked that. It ^vas four in
the morning and the place was packed with truckers and deHverymen,
even had a few cops over in a corner, and of course they ran to their cars
and sped away with lights blazing. My table shook so hard that coffee
spiUed from my cup."

"And that gave you a real thrill?"

"Yes, it did. But the other jobs were too risky. I didn't have the time
to find a cafe or diner, so I just sort of rode around for a few minutes
waiting for the fun. I'd check my watch closely, so I always knew about
when it would hit. If I was in the car, I Hked to be on the edge of town,
you know." Sam paused and took a long puff from his cigarette. His
words were slow and careful. His eyes danced a bit as he talked about his
adventures, but his words were measured. "I did watch the Pinder
bombing," he added.

"And how'd you do that?"

"They Hved in a big house in the suburbs, lots of trees, sort of in a
valley. I parked on the side of a hiU about a mile away, and I was sitting
under a tree when it went off."

"How peaceful."

"It really was. FuU moon, cool night. I had a great view of the street,
and I could see almost aU of the roof It was so calm and peaceful,
everyone was asleep, then, boom, blew that roof to heU and back."

"What was Mr. Finder's sin?"

"Just overall general Jewishness. Loved niggers. Always embraced the
radical Africans when they came down from the North and agitated
everybody. He loved to march and boycott with the Africans. We sus-
pected he was financing a lot of their activities."

Adam made notes and tried to absorb aU of this. It was hard to digest
because it was almost impossible to believe. Perhaps the death penalty
was not such a bad idea after all. "Back to GreenviUe. Where was this
coffee shop located?"

"Don't remember."

"What was it caUed?"

THE CHAMBER 133

"It was twenty-three years ago. And it was not the kind of place you'd
want to remember."

"Was it on Highway 82?"

"I think so. What are you gonna do? Spend your time digging for the
fat cook and the tacky waitress? Are you doubting my story?"

"Yes. I'm doubting your story."

"Why?"

"Because you can't tell me where you learned to make a bomb with a
timing detonator."

"In the garage behind my house."

"In Clanton?"

"Out from Clanton. It's not that difficult."

"Who taught you?"

"I taught myself I had a drawing, a Htde booklet with diagrams and
such. Steps one, two, three. It was no big deal."

"How many times did you practice with such a device before
Kramer?"
Once.

"Where? When?"

"In the woods not far from my house. I took two sticks of dynamite
and the necessary paraphernalia, and I went to a Httle creek bed deep in
the woods. It worked perfectly."

"Of course. And you did all this study and research in your garage?"

"That's what I said."

"Your own little laboratory."

"Call it whatever you want."

"Well, the FBI conducted a thorough search of your house, garage,
and premises while you were in custody. They didn't find a trace of
evidence of explosives."

"Maybe they're stupid. Maybe I was real careful and didn't leave a
trail."

"Or maybe the bomb was planted by someone with experience in
explosives."

"Nope. Sorry."

"How long did you stay in the coffee shop in Greenville?"

"A helluva long time. Five o'clock came and went. Then it was al-
most six. I left a few minutes before six and drove by Kramer's office.
The place looked fine. Some of the early risers were out and about, and
I didn't want to be seen. I crossed the river and drove to Lake Village,
Arkansas, then returned to Greenville. It was seven by then, sun was up
and people were moving around. No explosion. I parked the car on a
side street, and walked around for a while. The damned thing wouldn't

134 JOHN GRISHAM

go off. I couldn't go in after it, you know. I walked and walked, listening
hard, hoping the ground would shake. Nothing happened."

"Did you see Marvin Kramer and his sons go into the building?"

"No. I turned a corner and saw his car parked, and I thought dammit!
I went blank. I couldn't think. But then I thought, what the heU, he's
just a Jew and he's done many evil things. Then, I thought about secre-
taries and other people who might work in there, so I walked around the
block again. I remember looking at my watch when it was twenty min-
utes before eight, and I had this thought that maybe I should make an
anonymous phone call to the office and teU Kramer that there was a
bomb in the closet. And if he didn't believe me, then he could go look
at it, then he could haul ass."

"Why didn't you?"

"I didn't have a dime. I'd left all my change as a tip for the waitress,
and I didn't want to walk into a store and ask for change. I have to tell
you I was real nervous. My hands were shaking, and I didn't want to act
suspicious in front of anybody. I was a stranger, right? That was my
bomb in there, right? I was in a small town where everybody knows
everyone, and they damned sure remember strangers when there's a
crime. I remember walking down the sidewalk, just across the street
from Kramer's, and in front of a barbershop there was a newspaper rack,
and this man was fumbling in his pocket for change. I almost asked him
for a dime so I could make a quick call, but I was too nervous."

"Why were you nervous, Sam? You just said you didn't care if Kramer
got hurt. This was your sixth bombing, right?"

"Yeah, but the others were easy. Light the fuse, hit the door, and wait
a few minutes. I kept thinking about that cute Httle secretary in Kramer's
office, the one who'd shown me to the rest room. The same one who
later testified at trial. And I kept thinking about the other people who
worked in his office because when I went in that day I saw people
everywhere. It was almost eight o'clock, and I knew the place opened in
a few minutes. I knew a lot of people were about to get killed. My mind
stopped working. I remember standing beside a phone booth a block
away, staring at my watch, then staring at the phone, telling myself that I
had to make the call. I finally stepped inside and looked up the number,
but by the time I closed the book I'd forgotten it. So I looked it up
again, and I started to dial when I remembered I didn't have a dime. So I
made up my mind to go into the barbershop to get some change. My
legs were heavy and I was sweatin' like heU. I walked to the barbershop,
and I stopped at the plate glass window and looked in. It was packed.
They were lined up against the wall, talking and reading papers, and
there was a row of chairs, aU filled with men talking at the same time. 1

THE CHAMBER 135

remember a couple of them looked at me, then one or two more began
to stare, so I walked away."

"Where did you go?"

"I'm not sure. There was an office next door to Kramer's, and I
remember seeing a car park in front of it. I thought maybe it was a
secretary or someone about to go into Kramer's, and I think I was
walking toward the car when the bomb went off."

"So you were across the street?"

"I think so. I remember rocking on my hands and knees in the street
as glass and debris fell all around me. But I don't remember much after
that."

There was a slight knock on the door from the outside, then Sergeant
Packer appeared with a large Styrofoam cup, a paper napkin, a stir stick,
and creamer. "Thought you might need a little coffee. Sorry to butt in."
He placed the cup and accessories on the counter.

"Thanks," Adam said.

Packer quickly turned and headed for the door.

"I'll take two sugars, one cream," Sam said from the other side.

"Yes sir," Packed snapped without slowing. He was gone.

"Good service around here," Adam said.

"Wonderful, just wonderful."

FOURTEEN

SAM, OF COURSE, was not served coffee. He knew this immedi-
ately, but Adam did not. And so after waiting a few minutes, Sam
said, "Drink it." He himself lit another cigarette, and paced around
a bit behind his chair while Adam stirred the sugar with the plastic stick.
It was almost eleven, and Sam had missed his hour out, and he had no
confidence that Packer would find the time to make it up. He paced and
squatted a few times, performed a half dozen deep bends, knees cracking
and joints popping as he rose and sank unsteadily. During the first few
months of his first year on the Row, he had grown quite disciplined
with his exercise. At one point, he was doing a hundred push-ups and a
hundred sit-ups in his cell each day, every day. His weight fell to a
perfect one hundred and sixty pounds as the low-fat diet took its course.
His stomach was flat and hard. He had never been so healthy.

Not long afterward, however, came the realization that the Row
would be his final home, and that the state would one day kill him here.
What's the benefit of good health and tight biceps when one is locked
up twenty-three hours a day waiting to die? The exercise slowly stopped.
The smoking intensified. Among his comrades, Sam was considered a
lucky man, primarily because he had outside money. A younger brother,
Donnie, lived in North Carolina and once a month shipped to Sam a
cardboard box packed neatly with ten cartons of Montclair cigarettes.
Sam averaged between three and four packs a day. He wanted to kill
himself before the state got around to it. And he preferred to go by way
of some protracted illness or affliction, some disease that would require

THECHAMBER 137

expensive treatment which tlie State of Mississippi would be constitu-
tionally bound to provide.

It looked as though he would lose the race.

The federal judge who had assumed control of Parchman through a
prisoners' rights suit had issued sweeping orders overhauHng fundamen-
tal correction procedures. He had carefully defined the rights of prison-
ers. And he had set forth minor details, such as the square footage of
each cell on the Row and the amount of money each inmate could
possess. Twenty dollars was the maximum. It was referred to as "dust,"
and it always came from the outside. Death row inmates were not al-
lowed to work and earn money. The lucky ones received a few dollars a
month from relatives and friends. They could spend it in a canteen
located in the middle of MSU. Soft drinks were known as "bottle-ups."
Candy and snacks were "zu-zus" and "wham- whams." Real cigarettes
in packages were "tight-legs" and "ready- rolls."

The majority of the inmates received nothing from the outside. They
traded, swapped, and bartered, and gathered enough coins to purchase
loose leaf tobacco which they rolled into thin papers and smoked slowly.
Sam was indeed a lucky man.

He took his seat and lit another one.

"Why didn't you testify at trial?" his lawyer asked through the screen.

"Which trial?"

"Good point. The first two trials."

"Didn't need to. Brazelton picked good juries, all white, good sympa-
thetic people who understood things. I knew I wouldn't be convicted by
those people. There was no need to testify."

"And the last trial?"

"That's a little more complicated. Keyes and I discussed it many times.
He at first thought it might help, because I could explain to the jury
what my intentions were. Nobody was supposed to get hurt, etc. The
bomb was supposed to go off at 5 a.m. But we knew the cross-examina-
tion would be brutal. The judge had already ruled that the other bomb-
ings could be discussed to show certain things. I would be forced to
admit that I did in fact plant the bomb, all fifteen sticks, which of course
was more than enough to kill people."

"So why didn't you testify?"

"Dogan. That lying bastard told the jury that our plan was to kill the
Jew. He was a very effective witness. I mean, think about it, here was the
former Imperial Wizard of the Mississippi Klan testifying for the prose-
cution against one of his own men. It was stout stutT. The jury ate it up."

"Why did Dogan lie?"

"Jerry Dogan went crazy, Adam. I mean, really crazy. The Feds pur-

138 JOHN GRISHAM

sued him for fifteen years — ^bugged his phones, followed his wife around
town, harassed his kinfolks, threatened his children, knocked on his door
at all hours of the night. His life was miserable. Someone was always
w^atching and Hstening. Then, he got sloppy, and the IRS stepped in.
They, along with the FBI, told him he was looking at thirty years.
Dogan cracked under the pressure. After my trial, I heard he was sent
away for a while. You know, to an institution. He got some treatment,
returned home, and died not long after."

"Dogan's dead?"

Sam froze in mid-puff. Smoke leaked from his mouth and curled
upward past his nose and in front of his eyes, which at the moment were
staring in disbelief through the opening and into those of his grandson.
"You don't know about Dogan?" he asked.

Adam's memory blitzed through the countless articles and stories
which he'd collected and indexed. He shook his head. "No. What hap-
pened to Dogan?"

"I thought you knew^ everything," Sam said. "Thought you'd memo-
rized everything about me."

"I know a lot about you, Sam. I reaUy don't care about Jeremiah
Dogan."

"He burned in a house fire. He and his wife. They were asleep one
night when a gas line somehow began leaking propane. Neighbors said it
was like a bomb going off."

"When did this happen?"

"Exactly one year to the day after he testified against me."

Adam tried to write this down, but his pen wouldn't move. He stud-
ied Sam's face for a clue. "Exactly a year?"

"Yep."

"That's a nice coincidence."

"I was in here, of course, but I heard bits and pieces of it. Cops ruled
it accidental. In fact, I think there was a lawsuit against the propane
company."

"So, you don't think he "was murdered?"

"Sure I think he was murdered."

"Okay. Who did it?'"

"In fact, the FBI came here and asked me some questions. Can you
beheve it? The Feds poking their noses around here. A couple of kids
from up North. Just couldn't wait to visit death row and flash their
badges and meet a real live Klan terrorist. They were so damned scared
they were afraid of their shadows. They asked me stupid questions for an
hour, then left. Never heard from anybody again."

"Who would murder Dogan?"

THECHAMBER 139

Sam bit the filter and extracted the last mouthful of smoke from the
cigarette. He stubbed it in the ashtray while exhaling through the screen.
Adam waved at the smoke with exaggerated motions, but Sam ignored
him. "Lots of people," he mumbled.

Adam made a note in the margin to talk about Dogan later. He would
do the research first, then spring it again in some future conversation.

"Just for the sake of argument," he said, still writing, "it seems as
though you should' ve testified to counter Dogan."

"I almost did," Sam said with a trace of regret. "The last night of the
trial, me and Keyes and his associate, I forget her name, stayed up until
midnight discussing whether or not I should take the stand. But think
about it, Adam. I would've been forced to admit that I planted the
bomb, that it had a timing device set to go off later, that I had been
involved in other bombings, and that I was across the street from the
building when it blew. Plus, the prosecution had clearly proven that
Marvin Kramer was a target. I mean, hell, they played those FBI phone
tapes to the jury. You should' ve heard it. They rigged up these huge
speakers in the courtroom, and they set the tape player on a table in front
of the jury like it was some kind of a live bomb. And there was Dogan
on the phone to Wayne Graves, his voice was scratchy but very audible,
talking about bombing Marvin Kramer for this and for that, and brag-
ging about how he would send his Group, as he called me, to Greenville
to take care of matters. The voices on that tape sounded Hke ghosts from
hell, and the jury hung on every word. Very efrective. And, then, of
course, there was Dogan's own testimony. I would've looked ridiculous
at that moment trying to testify and convince the jury that I really wasn't
a bad guy. McAllister would've eaten me alive. So we decided I
shouldn't take the stand. Looking back, it was a bad move. I should've
talked."

"But on the advice of your attorney you didn't?"

"Look, Adam, if you're thinking about attacking Keyes on the
grounds of ineffective assistance of counsel, then forget it. I paid Keyes
good money, mortgaged everything I had, and he did a good job. A
long time ago Goodman and Tyner considered going after Keyes, but
they found nothing wrong with his representation. Forget it."

The Cayhall file at Kravitz & Bane had at least two inches of research
and memos on the issue of Benjamin Keyes' representation. Ineffective
assistance of trial counsel was a standard argument in death penalty ap-
peals, but it had not been used in Sam's case. Goodman and Tyner had
discussed it at length, bouncing long memos back and forth between
their offices on the sixty-first and sixty-sixth floors in Chicago. The final

140 JOHN GRISHAM

memo declared that Keyes had done such a good job at trial that there
was nothing to attack.

The file also included a three-page letter from Sam expressly forbid-
ding any attack on Keyes. He would not sign any petition doing so, he
promised.

The last memo, however, had been written seven years earlier at a
time "when death was a distant possibility. Things were different now.
Issues had to be resurrected or even fabricated. It w^as time to grasp at
straws.

"Where is Keyes now?" Adam asked.

"Last I heard he took a job in Washington. He wrote me about five
years ago, said he wasn't practicing anymore. He took it pretty hard
when we lost. I don't think either one of us expected it."

"You didn't expect to be convicted?"

"Not really. I had already beaten it twice, you know. And my jury the
third time had eight whites, or Anglo-Americans I should say. As bad as
the trial went, I don't think I ever really believed they'd convict me."

"What about Keyes?"

"Oh, he was worried. We damned sure didn't take it lightly. We spent
months preparing for the trial. He neglected his other clients, even his
family, for weeks while we were getting ready. McAllister was popping
off in the papers every day, it seemed, and the more he talked the more
w^e worked. They released the Ust of potential jurors, four hundred of
them, and we spent days investigating those people. His pretrial prepara-
tion was impeccable. We were not naive."

"Lee told me you considered disappearing."

"Oh, she did."

"Yeah, she told me last night."

He tapped the next cigarette on the counter, and admired it for a
moment as if it might be his last. "Yeah, I thought about it. Almost
thirteen years passed before McAlHster came after me. I was a free man,
heU I was forty-seven years old when the second trial ended and I
returned home. Forty-seven years old, and I had been cleared by two
juries, and all this was behind me. I was happy. Life was normal. I
farmed and ran a sawmill, drank coffee in town and voted in every
election. The Feds watched me for a few months, but I guess they
became convinced I'd given up bombing. From time to time, a pesky
reporter or journalist would show up in Clanton and ask questions, but
nobody spoke to them. They were always from up North, dumb as heU,
rude and ignorant, and they never stayed long. One came to the house
one day, and wouldn't leave. Instead of getting the shotgun, I just turned
the dogs loose on him and they chewed his ass up. Never came back."

THE CHAMBER 141

He chuckled to himself and Ht the cigarette. "Not in my wildest dreams
did I envision this. If I'd had the slightest inkling, the faintest clue that
this might happen to me, then I would have been gone years ago. I was
completely free, you understand, no restrictions. I would' ve gone to
South America, changed my name, disappeared two or three times, then
settled in some place like Sao Paulo or Rio."

"Like Mengele."

"Something like that. They never caught him, you know. They never
caught a bunch of those guys. I'd be living right now in a nice little
house, speaking Portuguese and laughing at fools like David McAllister."
Sam shook his head and closed his eyes, and dreamed of what might have
been.

"Why didn't you leave when McAllister started making noises?"

"Because I was foohsh. It happened slowly. It was like a bad dream
coming to life in small segments. First, McAllister got elected with all his
promises. Then, a few months later Dogan got nailed by the IRS. I
started hearing rumors and reading little things in the newspapers. But I
simply refused to beHeve it could happen. Before I knew it, the FBI was
following me and I couldn't run."

Adam looked at his watch and was suddenly tired. They had been
talking for more than two hours, and he needed fresh air and sunshine.
His head ached from the cigarette smoke, and the room was growing
warmer by the moment. He screwed the cap on his pen and slid the legal
pad into his briefcase. "I'd better go," he said in the direction of the
screen. "I'll probably come back tomorrow for another round."

"I'll be here."

"Lucas Mann has given me the green light to visit anytime I want."

"A helluva guy, isn't he?"

"He's okay. Just doing his job."

"So's Naifeh and Nugent and all those other white folks."

"White folks?"

"Yeah, it's slang for the authorities. Nobody really wants to kill me,
but they're just doing their jobs. There's this little moron with nine
fingers who's the official executioner — the guy who mixes the gas and
inserts the canister. Ask him what he's doing as they strap me in, and
he'll say, 'Just doing my job.' The prison chaplain and the prison doctor
and the prison psychiatrist, along with the guards who'll escort me in
and the medics who'll carry me out, well, they're nice folks, nothing
really against me, but they're just doing their jobs."

"It won't get that far, Sam."

"Is that a promise?"

"No. But think positive."

142 JOHN GRISHAM

"Yeah, positive thinking's real popular around here. Me and the boys
are big on motivational shows, along with travel programs and home
shopping. The Africans prefer 'Soul Train.' "

"Lee's worried about you, Sam. She wanted me to tell you she's
thinking about you and praying for you."

Sam bit his bottom hp and looked at the floor. He nodded slowly but
said nothing.

"I'U be staying with her for the next month or so."

"She's stiU married to that guy?"

"Sort of She wants to see you."

"No."

"Why not?"

Sam carefuUy eased from his chair and knocked on the door behind
him. He turned and looked at Adam through the screen. They watched
each other until a guard opened the door and took Sam away.

FIFTEEN

THE KID left an hour ago, with authorization, though I haven't
seen it in writing," Lucas Mann explained to Phillip Naifeh,
who was standing in his window watching a litter gang along the
highway. Naifeh had a headache, a backache, and was in the middle of a
generally awful day which had included three early phone calls from the
governor and two from Roxburgh, the Attorney General. Sam, of
course, had been the reason for the calls.

"So he's got himself a lawyer," Naifeh said while gently pressing a fist
in the center of his lower back.

"Yeah, and I really like this kid. He stopped by when he left and
looked like he'd been run over by a truck. I think he and his grandfather
are having a rough time of it."

"It'll get worse for the grandfather."

"It'll get worse for all of us."

"Do you know what the governor asked me? Wanted to know if he
could have a copy of our manual on how to carry out executions. I told
him no, that in fact he could not have a copy. He said he was the
governor of this state and he felt as though he should have a copy. I tried
to explain that it wasn't really a manual as such, just a loose-leaf little
book in a black binder that gets heavily revised each time we gas some-
one. What's it called, he wanted to know. I said it's called nothing,
actually, no official name because thankfully it's not used that much, but
that on further thought I myself have referred to it as the little black
book. He pushed a little harder, I got a little madder, we hung up, and

144 JOHN GRISHAM

fifteen minutes later his lawyer, that little hunchback fart with eyeglasses
pinching his nose — "

"Larramore."

"Larramore called me and said that according to this code section and
that code section he, the governor, has a right to a copy of the manual. I
put him on hold, pulled the code sections, made him wait ten minutes,
then we read the law together, and, of course, as usual, he's lying and
bluffing and figuring I'm an imbecile. No such language in my copy of
the code. I hung up on him. Ten minutes later the governor called back,
all sugar and spice, told me to forget the Httle black book, that he's very
concerned about Sam's constitutional rights and all, and just wants me to
keep him posted as this thing unfolds. A real charmer." Naifeh shifted
weight on his feet and changed fists in his back while staring at the
window.

"Then, half an hour later Roxburgh calls, and guess what he wants to
know? Wants to know if I've talked to the governor. You see, Roxburgh
thinks he and I are real tight, old political pals, you know, and therefore
we can trust each other. And so he tells me, confidentially of course,
buddy to buddy, that he thinks the governor might try to exploit this
execution for his own political gain."

"Nonsense!" Lucas hooted.

"Yeah, I told Roxburgh that I just couldn't beUeve he would think
such a thing about our governor. I was real serious, and he got real
serious, and we promised each other that we'd watch the governor real
close and if we saw any sign that he was trying to manipulate this situa-
tion, then we'd call each other real quick. Roxburgh said there were
some things he could do to neutralize the governor if he got out of line.
I didn't dare ask what or how, but he seemed sure of himself"

"So who's the bigger fool?"

"Probably Roxburgh. But it's a tough call." Naifeh stretched carefully
and walked to his desk. His shoes were off and his shirttail was out. He
was in obvious pain. "Both have insatiable appetites for publicity.
They're like two little boys scared to death that one wiU get a bigger
piece of candy. I hate 'em both."

"Everybody hates them except the voters."

There was a sharp knock on the door, three solid raps delivered at
precise intervals. "Must be Nugent," Naifeh said and his pain suddenly
intensified. "Come in."

The door opened quickly and Retired Colonel George Nugent
marched into the room, pausing only slightly to close the door, and
moved officially toward Lucas Mann, who did not stand but shook hands

THE CHAMBER 145

anyway. "Mr. Mann." Nugent greeted him crisply, then stepped for-
ward and shook hands across the desk with Naifeh.

"Have a seat, George," Naifeh said, waving at an empty chair next to
Mann. Naifeh wanted to order him to cut the military crap, but he knew
it would do no good.

"Yes sir," Nugent answered as he lowered himself into the seat with-
out bending his back. Though the only uniforms at Parchman were
worn by guards and inmates, Nugent had managed to fashion one for
himself His shirt and pants were dark olive, perfectly matched and per-
fectly ironed with precise folds and creases, and they miraculously sur-
vived each day without the slightest wrinkling. The pants stopped a few
inches above the ankles where they disappeared into a pair of black
leather combat boots, shined and buffed at least twice a day to a state of
perpetual sparkle. There had once been a weak rumor that a secretary or
maybe a trustee had seen a spot of mud on one of the soles, but the
rumor had not been confirmed.

The top button was left open to form an exact triangle which revealed
a gray tee shirt. The pockets and sleeves were bare and unadorned, free
of his medals and ribbons, and Naifeh had long suspected that this caused
the colonel no small amount of humiliation. The haircut was strict mili-
tary with bare skin above the ears and a thin layer of gray sprouts on top.
Nugent was fifty-two, had served his country for thirty-four years, first
as a buck private in Korea and later as a captain of some variety in
Vietnam, where he fought the war from behind a desk. He'd been
wounded in a jeep wreck and sent home with another ribbon.

For two years now Nugent had served admirably as an assistant super-
intendent, a trusted, loyal, and dependable underling of Naifeh's. He
loved details and regulations and rules. He devoured manuals, and was
constantly writing new procedures and directives and modifications for
the warden to ponder. He was a significant pain in the warden's ass, but
he was needed nonetheless. It was no secret that the colonel wanted
Naifeh's job in a couple of years.

"George, me and Lucas have been talking about the Cayhall mat-
ter. Don't know how much you know about the appeals, but the
Fifth Circuit Hfted the stay and we're looking at an execution in four
weeks."

"Yes sir," Nugent snapped, absorbing and itemizing every word. "I
read about it in today's paper."

"Good. Lucas here is of the opinion that this one might come down,
you know. Right, Lucas?"

"There's a good chance. Better than fifty-fifty." Lucas said this with-
out looking at Nugent.

146 JOHN GRISHAM

"How long have you been here, George?"

"Two years, one month."

The "warden calculated something while rubbing his temples. "Did
you miss the Parris execution?"

"Yes sir. By a few weeks," he answered with a trace of disappoint-
ment.

"So you haven't been through one?"

"No sir."

"Well, they're awful, George. Just awful. Worst part of this job, by far.
Frankly, I'm just not up to it. I was hoping I'd retire before we used the
chamber again, but now that looks doubtful. I need some help."

Nugent' s back, though painfuUy stiff already, seemed to straighten
even more. He nodded quickly, eyes dancing in all directions.

Naifeh delicately sat in his seat, grimacing as he eased onto the soft
leather. "Since I'm just not up to it, George, Lucas and I were thinking
that maybe you'd do a good job with this one."

The colonel couldn't suppress a smile. Then it quickly disappeared
and was replaced with a most serious scowl. "I'm sure I can handle it,
sir.

"I'm sure you can too." Naifeh pointed to a black binder on the
corner of his desk. "We have a manual of sorts. There it is, the collected
wisdom of two dozen visits to the gas chamber over the past thirty
years."

Nugent's eyes narrowed and focused on the black book. He noticed
that the pages were not aU even and uniform, that an assortment of
papers were actually folded and stuffed slovenly throughout the text,
that the binder itself was worn and shabby. Within hours, he quickly
decided, the manual would be transformed into a primer worthy of
publication. That would be his first task. The paperwork would be im-
maculate.

"Why don't you read it tonight, and let's meet again tomorrow?"

"Yes sir," he said smugly.

"Not a word to anyone about this until we talk again, understood?"

"No sir."

Nugent nodded smartly at Lucas Mann, and left the office cradling the
black book like a kid with a new toy. The door closed behind him.

"He's a nut," Lucas said.

"I know. We'U watch him."

"We'd better watch him. He's so damned gung-ho he might try to gas
Sam this weekend."

Naifeh opened a desk draw^er and retrieved a bottle of pills. He swal-

THE CHAMBER 147

lowed two without the assistance of water. "I'm going home, Lucas. I
need to lie down. I'll probably die before Sam does."
"You'd better hurry."

THE PHONE CONVERSATION with E. Garner Goodman was
brief Adam explained with some measure of pride that he and Sam had
a written agreement on representation, and that they had already spent
four hours together though litde had been accomplished. Goodman
wanted a copy of the agreement, and Adam explained that there were no
copies as of now, that the original was safely tucked away in a cell on
death row, and, furthermore, there would be copies only if the client
decided so.

Goodman promised to review the file and get to work. Adam gave
him Lee's phone number and promised to check in every day. He hung
up the phone and stared at two terrifying phone messages beside his
computer. Both were from reporters, one from a Memphis newspaper
and one from a television station in Jackson, Mississippi.

Baker Cooley had talked to both reporters. In fact, a TV crew from
Jackson had presented itself to the firm's receptionist and left only after
Cooley made threats. All this attention had upset the tedious routine of
the Memphis branch of Kravitz & Bane. Cooley was not happy about it.
The other partners had little to say to Adam. The secretaries were pro-
fessionally polite, but anxious to stay away from his office.

The reporters knew, Cooley had warned him gravely. They knew
about Sam and Adam, the grandson-grandfather angle, and while he
wasn't sure how they knew, it certainly hadn't come from him. He
hadn't told a soul, until, of course, word was already out and he'd been
forced to gather the partners and associates together just before lunch
and break the news.

It was almost five o'clock. Adam sat at his desk with the door shut,
listening to the voices in the hall as clerks and paralegals and other
salaried staff made last minute preparations to leave for the day. He
decided he would have nothing to say to the TV reporter. He dialed the
number for Todd Marks at the Memphis Press. A recorded message
guided him through the wonders of voice mail, and after a couple of
minutes, Mr. Marks picked up his five-digit extension and said hur-
riedly, "Todd Marks." He sounded like a teenager.

"This is Adam Hall, with Kravitz & Bane. I had a note to call you."

"Yes, Mr. Hall," Marks gushed, instantly friendly and no longer in a
hurry. "Thanks for calhng. I, uh, well, we, uh, picked up a rumor about
your handling of the Cayhall case, and, uh, I was just trying to track it
down."

148 JOHN GRISHAM

"I represent Mr. Cayhall," Adam said with measured words.

"Yes, well, that's \vhat we heard. And, uh, you're from Chicago?"

"I am from Chicago."

"I see. How, uh, did you get the case?"

"My firm has represented Sam CayhaU for seven years."

"Yes, right. But didn't he terminate your services recently?"

"He did. And now he's rehired the firm." Adam could hear keys
pecking away as Marks gathered his words into a computer.

"I see. We heard a rumor, just a rumor, I guess, that Sam CayhaU is
your grandfather."

"Where'd you hear this?"

"Well, you know, we have sources, and we have to protect them.
Can't really teU you Avhere it came from, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Adam took a deep breath and let Marks hang for a
minute. "Where are you now?"

"At the paper."

"And where's that? I don't know the city."

"Where are you?" Marks asked.

"Downtown. In our office."

"I'm not far away. I can be there in ten minutes."

"No, not here. Let's meet somewhere else. A quiet Httle bar some
place."

"Fine. The Peabody Hotel is on Union, three blocks from you.
There's a nice bar off the lobby called Mallards."

"I'U be there in fifteen minutes. Just me and you, okay?"
Sure.

Adam hung up the phone. Sam's agreement contained some loose and
ambiguous language that attempted to prevent his lawyer from talking to
the press. The particular clause had major loopholes that any lawyer
could walk through, but Adam did not wish to push the issue. After two
visits, his grandfather was stiU nothing but a mystery. He didn't like
lawyers and would readily fire another, even his own grandson.

MALLARDS was filling up quickly with young weary professionals who
needed a couple of stiff ones for the drive to the suburbs. Few people
actually lived in downtown Memphis, so the bankers and brokers met
here and in countless other bars and gulped beer in green bottles and
sipped Swedish vodka. They Uned the bar and gathered around the small
tables to discuss the direction of the market and debate the future of the
prime. It was a tony place, with authentic brick walls and real hardwood
floors. A table by the door held trays of chicken wings and livers
wrapped with bacon.

THECHAMBER 149

Adam spotted a young man in jeans holding a notepad. He introduced
himself, and they went to a table in the corner. Todd Marks was no more
than twenty-five. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and hair to his shoul-
ders. He was cordial and seemed a bit nervous. They ordered Heinekens.

The notepad was on the table, ready for action, and Adam decided to
take control. "A few ground rules," he said. "First, everything I say is off
the record. You can't quote me on anything. Agreed?"

Marks shrugged as if this was okay but not exactly what he had in
mind. "Okay," he said.

"I think you caU it deep background, or something Hke that."

"That's it."

"I'll answer some questions for you, but not many. I'm here because I
want you to get it right, okay?"

"Fair enough. Is Sam Cayhall your grandfather?"

"Sam Cayhall is my client, and he has instructed me not to talk to the
press. That's why you can't quote me. I'm here to confirm or deny.
That's aU."

"Okay. But is he your grandfather?"

"Yes."

Marks took a deep breath and savored this incredible fact which no
doubt led to an extraordinary story. He could see the headlines.

Then he realized he should ask some more questions. He carefully
took a pen from his pocket. "Who's your father?"

"My father is deceased."

A long pause. "Okay. So Sam is your mother's father?"

"No. Sam is my father's father."

"All right. Why do you have different last names?"

"Because my father changed his name."

"Why?"

"I don't want to answer that. I don't want to go into a lot of family
background."

"Did you grow up in Clanton?"

"No. I was born there, but left when I was three years old. My parents
moved to California. That's where I grew up."

"So you were not around Sam Cayhall?"

"No."

"Did you know him?"

"I met him yesterday."

Marks considered the next question, and thankfully the beer arrived.
They sipped in unison and said nothing.

He stared at his notepad, scribbled something, then asked, "How long
have you been with Kravitz & Bane?"

150 JOHNGRISHAM

"Almost a year."

"How long have you worked on the CayhaU case?"

"A day and a half."

He took a long drink, and w^atched Adam as if he expected an expla-
nation. "Look, uh, Mr. Hall — "

"It's Adam."

"Okay, Adam. There seem to be a lot of gaps here. Could you help
me a bit?"

"No."

"All right. I read somewhere that CayhaU fired Kravitz & Bane re-
cently. Were you working on the case when this happened?"

"I just told you I've been working on the case for a day and a half."

"When did you first go to death row?"

"Yesterday."

"Did he know you were coming?"

"I don't want to get into that."

"Why not?"

"This is a very confidential matter. I'm not going to discuss my visits
to death row. I w^iU confirm or deny only those things which you can
verify elsewhere."

"Does Sam have other children?"

"I'm not going to discuss family. I'm sure your paper has covered this
before."

"But it was a long time ago."

"Then look it up."

Another long drink, and another long look at the notepad. "What are
the odds of the execution taking place on August 8?"

"It's very hard to say. I wouldn't want to speculate."

"But aU the appeals have run, haven't they?"

"Maybe. Let's say I've got my work cut out for me."

"Can the governor grant a pardon?"

"Yes."

"Is that a possibility?"

"Rather unlikely. You'U have to ask him."

"WiU your client do any interviews before the execution?"

"I doubt it."

Adam glanced at his watch as if he suddenly had to catch a plane.
"Anything else?" he asked, then finished off the beer.

Marks stuck his pen in a shirt pocket. "Can we talk again?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

THE CHAMBER 151

"On how you handle this. If you drag up the family stuff, then forget
it."

"Must be some serious skeletons in the closet."

"No comment." Adam stood and offered a handshake. "Nice meet-
ing you," he said as they shook hands.

"Thanks. I'll give you a call."

Adam walked quickly by the crowd at the bar, and disappeared
through the hotel lobby.

SIXTEEN

OF ALL THE SILLY, nitpicking rules imposed upon inmates at
the Row, the one that irritated Sam the most was the five-inch
rule. This little nugget of regulatory brilliance placed a Hmit on
the volume of legal papers a death row inmate could possess in his cell.
The documents could be no thicker than five inches when placed on
end and squeezed together. Sam's file was not much different from the
other inmates', and after nine years of appellate warfare the file fiUed a
large cardboard box. How in hell was he supposed to research and study
and prepare with such Hmitations as the five-inch rule?

Packer had entered his cell on several occasions with a yardstick which
he waved around like a bandleader then carefully placed against the
papers. Each time Sam had been over the limit; once being caught,
according to Packer's assessment, with tw^enty-one inches. And each
time Packer wrote an RVR, a rules violation report, and some more
paperwork went into Sam's institutional file. Sam often wondered if his
file in the main administration building was thicker than five inches. He
hoped so. And who cared? They'd kept him in a cage for nine and a half
years for the sole purpose of sustaining his life so they could one day take
it. What else could they do to him?

Each time Packer had given him twenty-four hours to thin his file.
Sam usually mailed a few inches to his brother in North Carolina. A few
times he had reluctantly mailed an inch or two to E. Garner Goodman.
At the present time, he was about twelve inches over. And he had a
thin fde of recent Supreme Court cases under his mattress. And he had
two inches next door where Hank Henshaw watched it on the book-

THECHAMBER 153

shelf. And he had about three inches next door in J. B. Gullitt's stack of
papers. Sam reviewed all documents and letters for Henshaw and GuUitt.
Henshaw had a fme lawyer, one purchased with family money. Gullitt
had a fool from a big-shot firm in D.C. who'd never seen a courtroom.

The three-book rule was another baffling limitation on what inmates
could keep in their cells. This rule simply said that a death row inmate
could possess no more than three books. Sam owned fifteen, six in his
cell, and nine scattered among his clients on the Row. He had no time
for fiction. His collection was solely law books about the death penalty
and the Eighth Amendment.

He had finished a dinner of boiled pork, pinto beans, and corn bread,
and he was reading a case from the Ninth Circuit in CaUfornia about an
inmate who faced his death so calmly his law^yers decided he must be
crazy. So they filed a series of motions claiming their cHent was indeed
too crazy to execute. The Ninth Circuit was filled with California liber-
als opposed to the death penalty, and they jumped at this novel argu-
ment. The execution Vv^as stayed. Sam liked this case. He had wished
many times that he had the Ninth Circuit looking down upon him
instead of the Fifth.

Gullitt next door said, "Gotta kite, Sam," and Sam walked to his bars.
Flying a kite was the only method of correspondence for inmates several
cells away. GuUitt handed him the note. It was from Preacher Boy, a
pathetic white kid seven doors down. He had become a country
preacher at the age of fourteen, a regular hellfire-and-brimstoner, but
that career was cut short and perhaps delayed forever when he was con-
victed of the rape and murder of a deacon's wife. He was twenty-four
now, a resident of the Row for three years, and had recently made a
glorious return to the gospel. The note said:

Dear Sam, I am down here praying for you right now. I really believe
God will step into this matter and stop this thing. But if he don't, I'm
asking him to take you quickly, no pain or nothing, and take you
home. Love, Randy.

How wonderful, thought Sam, they're already praying that 1 go
quickly, no pain or nothing. He sat on the edge of his bed and wrote a
brief message on a scrap of paper.

Dear Randy:

Thanks for the prayers. I need them. I also need one of my books.
It's called Bronstein's Death Penalty Review. It's a green book. Send
it down. Sam.

154 JOHN GRISHAM

He handed it to J. B., and waited with his arms through the bars as the
kite made its way along the tier. It was almost eight o'clock, still hot and
muggy but mercifully growing dark outside. The night would lower the
temperature to the high seventies, and with the fans buzzing away the
cells became tolerable.

Sam had received several kites during the day. AU had expressed sym-
pathy and hope. All offered whatever help was available. The music had
been quieter and the yelling that erupted occasionally when someone's
rights were being tampered with had not occurred. For the second day,
the Row had been a more peaceful place. The televisions rattled along
aU day and into the night, but the volume was lower. Tier A was notice-
ably calmer.

"Got myself a new lawyer," Sam said quietly as he leaned on his
elbows with his hands hanging into the hallway. He wore nothing but
his boxer shorts. He could see GuUitt's hands and wrists, but he could
never see his face when they talked in their cells. Each day as Sam was
led outside for his hour of exercise, he walked slowly along the tier and
stared into the eyes of his comrades. And they stared at him. He had their
faces memorized, and he knew their voices. But it was cruel to live next
door to a man for years and have long conversations about Hfe and death
while looking only at his hands.

"That's good, Sam. I'm glad to hear it."

"Yeah. Pretty sharp kid, I think."

"Who is it?" GuUitt's hands were clasped together. They didn't move.

"My grandson." Sam said this just loud enough for Gullitt to hear. He
could be trusted with secrets.

GuUitt's fingers moved slightly as he pondered this. "Your grandson?"

"Yep. From Chicago. Big firm. Thinks we might have a chance."

"You never told me you had a grandson."

"I hadn't seen him in twenty years. Showed up yesterday and told me
he was a lawyer and wanted to take my case."

"Where's he been for the past ten years?"

"Growing up, I guess. He's just a kid. Twenty-six, I think."

"You're gonna let a twenty-six-year-old kid take your case?"

This irritated Sam a bit. "I don't exactly have a lot of choices at this
moment in my Ufe."

"HeU, Sam, you know more law than he does."

"I know, but it'U be nice to have a real lawyer out there typing up
motions and appeals on real computers and fUing them in the proper
courts, you kno"w. It'U be nice to have somebody who can run to court
and argue with judges, somebody who can fight with the state on equal
footing."

THE CHAMBER 155

This seemed to satisfy Gullitt because he didn't speak for several min-
utes. His hands were still, but then he began rubbing his fingertips to-
gether and this of course meant something was bothering him. Sam
waited.

"I've been thinking about something, Sam. All day long this has been
eatin' at me."

"What is it?"

"WeU, for three years now you've been right there and I've been right
here, you know, and you're my best friend in the world. You're the only
person I can trust, you know, and I don't know what I'm gonna do if
they walk you down the hall and into the chamber. I mean, I've always
had you right there to look over my legal stuff, stuff that I'll never
understand, and you've always given me good advice and told me what
to do. I can't trust my law^^er in D.C. He never calls me or writes me,
and I don't know what the hell's going on with my case. I mean, I don't
know if I'm a year away or five years away, and it's enough to drive me
crazy. If it hadn't been for you, I'd be a nut case by now. And what if
you don't make it?" By now his hands were jumping and thrusting with
aU sorts of intensity. His words stopped and his hands died down.

Sam lit a cigarette and offered one to Gullitt, the only person on death
row with whom he'd share. Hank Henshaw, to his left, did not smoke.
They puffed for a moment, each blowing clouds of smoke at the row of
windows along the top of the hallway.

Sam finally said, "I'm not going anywhere, J.B. My lawyer says we've
got a good chance."

"Do you believe him?"

"I think so. He's a smart kid."

"That must be weird, man, having a grandson as your lawyer. I can't
imagine." Gullitt was thirty-one, childless, married, and often com-
plained about his wife's jody, or free world boyfriend. She was a cruel
woman who never visited and had once written a short letter with the
good news that she was pregnant. Gullitt pouted for two days before
admitting to Sam that he had beaten her for years and chased lots of
women himself She wrote again a month later and said she was sorry. A
friend loaned her the money for an abortion, she explained, and she
didn't want a divorce after all. Gullitt couldn't have been happier.

"It's somewhat strange, I guess," Sam said. "He looks nothing like
me, but he favors his mother."

"So the dude just came right out and told you he was your long-lost
grandson?"

"No. Not at first. We talked for a while and his voice sounded famil-
iar. Sounded Uke his father's."

156 JOHN GRISHAM

"His father is your son, right?"

"Yeah. He's dead."

"Your son is dead?"

"Yeah."

The green book finally arrived from Preacher Boy with another note
about a magnificent dream he had just two nights ago. He had recently
acquired the rare spiritual gift of dream interpretation, and couldn't wait
to share it with Sam. The dream was still reveaHng itself to him, and once
he had it all pieced together he would decode it and untangle it and
illustrate it for Sam. It was good news, he already knew that much.

At least he's stopped singing, Sam said to himself as he finished the
note and sat on his bed. Preacher Boy had also been a gospel singer of
sorts and a songwriter on top of that, and periodically found himself
seized with the spirit to the point of serenading the tier at full volume
and at all hours of the day and night. He was an untrained tenor with
little pitch but incredible volume, and the complaints came fast and
furious when he belted his new tunes into the hallway. Packer himself
usually intervened to stop the racket. Sam had even threatened to step in
legally and speed up the kid's execution if the caterwauHng didn't stop, a
sadistic move that he later apologized for. The poor kid was just crazy,
and if Sam lived long enough he planned to use an insanity strategy that
he'd read about from the California case.

He reclined on his bed and began to read. The fan ruffled the pages
and circulated the sticky air, but within minutes the sheets under him
were wet. He slept in dampness until the early hours before dawn when
the Row was almost cool and the sheets were almost dry.

SEVENTEEN

THE AUBURN HOUSE had never been a house or a home, but
for decades had been a quaint Httle church of yellow brick and
stained glass. It sat surrounded by an ugly chain-link fence on a
shaded lot a few blocks from downtown Memphis. Graffiti Httered the
yellow brick and the stained glass windows had been replaced with ply-
wood. The congregation had fled east years ago, away from the inner
city, to the safety of the suburbs. They took their pews and songbooks,
and even their steeple. A security guard paced along the fence ready to
open the gate. Next door was a crumbling apartment building, and a
block behind was a deteriorating federal housing project from which the
patients of Auburn House came.

They were aU young mothers, teenagers without exception whose
mothers had also been teenagers and whose fathers were generally un-
known. The average age was fifteen. The youngest had been eleven.
They drifted in from the project with a baby on a hip and sometimes
another one trailing behind. They came in packs of three and four and
made their visits a social event. They came alone and scared. They gath-
ered in the old sanctuary which was now a waiting room where paper-
work was required. They waited with their infants while their toddlers
played under the seats. They chatted with their friends, other girls from
the project who'd walked to Auburn House because cars were scarce and
they were too young to drive.

Adam parked in a small lot to the side and asked the security guard for
directions. He examined Adam closely then pointed to the front door
where two young girls were holding babies and smoking. He entered

158 JOHN GRISHAM

between them, nodding and trying to be polite, but they only stared.
Inside he found a half dozen of the same mothers sitting in plastic chairs
with children swarming at their feet. A young lady behind a desk
pointed at a door and told him to take the haUway on the left.

The door to Lee's tiny office was open and she was talking seriously
to a patient. She smiled at Adam. "I'll be five minutes," she said, holding
something that appeared to be a diaper. The patient did not have a child
with her, but one was due very shortly.

Adam eased along the hallw^ay and found the men's room. Lee was
waiting for him in the hall when he came out. They pecked each other
on the cheeks. "What do you think of our Httle operation?" she asked.

"What exactly do you do here?" They walked through the narrow
corridor with worn carpet and peeHng walls.

"Auburn House is a nonprofit organization staffed with volunteers.
We work with young mothers."

"It must be depressing."

"Depends on how you look at it. Welcome to my office." Lee waved
at her door and they stepped inside. The walls were covered with color-
ful charts, one showing a series of babies and the foods they eat; another
Usted in large simple words the most common ailments of newborns;
another cartoonish illustration hailed the benefits of condoms. Adam
took a seat and assessed the walls.

"AH of our kids come from the projects, so you can imagine the
postnatal instruction they receive at home. None of them are married.
They Hve with their mothers or aunts or grandmothers. Auburn House
was founded by some nuns twenty years ago to teach these kids how to
raise healthy babies."

Adam nodded at the condom poster. "And to prevent babies?"

"Yes. We're not family planners, don't want to be, but it doesn't hurt
to mention birth control."

"Maybe you should do more than mention it."

"Maybe. Sixty percent of the babies born in this county last year were
out of wedlock, and the numbers go up each year. And each year there
are more cases of battered and abandoned children. It'U break your heart.
Some of these little fellas don't have a chance."

"Who funds it?"

"It's aU private. We spend half our time trying to raise money. We
operate on a very lean budget."

"How many counselors Hke you?"

"A dozen or so. Some work a few afternoons a week, a few Saturdays.
I'm lucky. I can afford to work here fuU-time."

"How many hours a week?"

THE CHAMBER 159

"I don't know. Who keeps up with them? I get here around ten and
leave after dark."

"And you do this for free?"

"Yeah. You guys caD it pro bono, I think."

"It's different with lawyers. We do volunteer work to justify ourselves
and the money we make, our little contribution to society. We stiU make
plenty of money, you understand. This is a little different."

"It's rewarding."

"How'd you find this place?"

"I don't know. It was a long time ago. I was a member of a social
club, a hot-tea-drinkers club, and we'd meet once a month for a lovely
lunch and discuss ways to raise a few pennies for the less fortunate. One
day a nun spoke to us about Auburn House, and we adopted it as our
beneficiary. One thing led to another."

"And you're not paid a dime?"

"Phelps has plenty of money, Adam. In fact, I donate a lot of it to
Auburn House. We have an annual fundraiser now at the Peabody, black
tie and champagne, and I make Phelps lean on his banker buddies to
show up with their wives and fork over the money. Raised over two
hundred thousand last year."

"Where does it go?"

"Some goes to overhead. We have two fuU-time staffers. The building
is cheap but it still costs. The rest goes for baby supplies, medicine, and
literature. There's never enough."

"So you sort of run the place?"

"No. We pay an administrator. I'm just a counselor."

Adam studied the poster behind her, the one with a bulky yellow
condom snaking its way harmlessly across the wall. He gathered from the
latest surveys and studies that these little devices were not being used by
teenagers, in spite of television campaigns and school slogans and MTV
spots by responsible rock stars. He could think of nothing worse than
sitting in this cramped little room all day discussing diaper rashes with
fifteen-year-old mothers.

"I admire you for this," he said, looking at the wall with the baby
food poster.

Lee nodded but said nothing. Her eyes were tired and she was ready to
go. "Let's go eat," she said.

"Where?"

"I don't know. Anywhere."

"I saw Sam today. Spent two hours with him."

Lee sunk in her seat, and slowly placed her feet on the desk. As usual,
she was wearing faded jeans and a button-down.

160 JOHN GRISHAM

"I'm his lawyer."

"He signed the agreement?"

"Yes. He prepared one himself, four pages. We both signed it, and so
now it's up to me."

"Are you scared?"

"Terrified. But I can handle it. I talked to a reporter with the Memphis
Press this afternoon. They've heard the rumor that Sam CayhaU is my
grandfather."

"What did you tell him?"

"Couldn't really deny it, could I? He wanted to ask all kinds of ques-
tions about the family, but I told him little. I'm sure he'U dig around and
find some more."

"What about me?"

"I certainly didn't teU him about you, but he'U start digging. I'm
sorry."

"Sorry about what?"

"Sorry that maybe they'll expose your true identity. You'll be branded
as the daughter of Sam Cayhall, murderer, racist, anti-Semite, terrorist,
Klansman, the oldest man ever led to the gas chamber and gassed Uke an
animal. They'll run you out of town."

"I've been through worse."

"What?"

"Being the wife of Phelps Booth."

Adam laughed at this, and Lee managed a smile. A middle-aged lady
walked to the open door and told Lee she was leaving for the day. Lee
jumped to her feet and quickly introduced her handsome young
nephew, Adam Hall, a lawyer from Chicago, who was visiting for a spell.
The lady was sufficiently impressed as she backed out of the office and
disappeared down the haU.

"You shouldn't have done that," Adam said.

"Why not?"

"Because my name wiU be in the paper tomorrow — ^Adam HaU, law-
yer from Chicago, and grandson."

Lee's mouth dropped an inch before she caught it. She then gave a
shrug as if she didn't care, but Adam saw the fear in her eyes. What a
stupid mistake, she was teUing herself "Who cares?" she said as she
picked up her purse and briefcase. "Let's go find a restaurant."

THEY WENT to a neighborhood bistro, an ItaUan family place with
smaU tables and few Hghts in a converted bungalow. They sat in a dark
corner and ordered drinks, iced tea for her and mineral water for him.

THE CHAMBER 161

When the waiter left, Lee leaned over the table and said, "Adam, there's
something I need to tell you."

He nodded but said nothing.

"I'm an alcoholic."

His eyes narrowed then froze. They'd had drinks together the last two
nights.

"It's been about ten years, now," she explained, still low over the
table. The nearest person was fifteen feet away. "There were a lot of
reasons, okay, some of which you could probably guess. I went through
recovery, came out clean, and lasted about a year. Then, rehab again.
I've been through treatment three times, the last was five years ago. It's
not easy."

"But you had a drink last night. Several drinks."

"I know. And the night before. And today I emptied all the bottles
and threw away the beer. There's not a drop in the apartment."

"That's fine with me. I hope I'm not the reason."

"No. But I need your help, okay. You'll be living with me for a
couple of months, and we'U have some bad times. Just help me."

"Sure, Lee. I wish you'd told me when I arrived. I don't drink much.
I can take it or leave it."

"Alcoholism is a strange animal. Sometimes I can watch people drink
and it doesn't bother me. Then I'U see a beer commercial and break into
a sweat. I'll see an ad in a magazine for a wine I used to enjoy, and the
craving is so intense I'll become nauseated. It's an awful struggle."

The drinks arrived and Adam was afraid to touch his mineral water.
He poured it over the ice and stirred it with a spoon. "Does it run in the
family?" he asked, almost certain that it did.

"I don't think so. Sam would sneak around and drink a little when we
were kids, but he kept it from us. My mother's mother was an alcoholic,
so my mother never touched the stuff. I never saw it in the house."

"How'd it happen to you?"

"Gradually. When I left home I couldn't wait to give it a try because
it was taboo when Eddie and I were growing up. Then I met Phelps, and
he comes from a family of heavy social drinkers. It became an escape,
and then it became a crutch."

"I'U do whatever I can. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I've enjoyed having a drink with you, but it's time to
quit, okay. I've fallen off the wagon three times, and it all starts with the
idea that I can have a drink or two and keep it under control. I went a
month one time sipping wine and limiting myself to a glass a day. Then
it was a glass and a half, then two, then three. Then rehab. I'm an
alcoholic, and I'll never get over it."

162 JOHN GRISHAM

Adam lifted his glass and touched it to hers. "Here's to the wagon.
We'll ride it together." They gulped their soft drinks.

The waiter was a student with a quick idea of what they should eat.
He suggested the chefs baked ravioH because it w^as simply the best in
town and would be on the table in ten minutes. They agreed.

"I often wondered what you did with your time but I was afraid to
ask," Adam said.

"I had a job once. After Walt was born and started school I got bored,
so Phelps found me a job with one of his friend's companies. Big salary,
nice office. I had my own secretary who knew much more about my job
than I did. I quit after a year. I married money, Adam, so I'm not
supposed to work. Phelps' mother was appalled that I would draw a
salary."

"What do rich women do all day long?"

"Carry the burdens of the world. They must first make sure hubby is
off to work, then they must plan the day. The servants have to be
directed and supervised. The shopping is divided into at least two parts
— ^morning and afternoon — ^with the morning usually consisting of sev-
eral rigorous phone calls to Fifth Avenue for the necessities. The after-
noon shopping is sometimes actually done in person, with the driver
waiting in the parking lot, of course. Lunch takes up most of the day
because it requires hours to plan and at least two hours to execute. It's
normally a small banquet attended by more of the same harried souls.
Then there's the social responsibiHty part of being a rich woman. At least
three times a week she attends tea parties in the homes of her friends
where they nibble on imported biscuits and whimper about the plight of
abandoned babies or mothers on crack. Then, it's back home in a hurry
to fireshen up for hubby's return firom the office wars. She'll sip her first
martini with him by the pool while four people prepare their dinner."

"What about sex?"

"He's too tired. Plus, he probably has a mistress."

"This is what happened to Phelps?"

"I guess, although he couldn't complain about the sex. I had a baby, I
got older, and he's always had a steady supply of young blondes from his
banks. You wouldn't believe his office. It's filled with gorgeous women
"with impeccable teeth and nails, all with short skirts and long legs. They
sit behind nice desks and talk on the phone, and wait for his beck and
call. He has a small bedroom next to a conference room. The man's an
animal."

"So you gave up the hard life of a rich woman and moved out?"

"Yeah. I was not a very good rich woman, Adam. I hated it. It was fun
for a very short while, but I didn't fit in. Not the right blood type.

THECHAMBER 163

Believe it or not, my family was not known in the social circles of
Memphis."

"You must be kidding."

"I swear. And to be a proper rich woman with a future in this city you
have to come from a family of rich fossils, preferably with a great-
grandfather who made money in cotton. I just didn't fit in."

"But you stiU play the social game."

"No. I still make appearances, but only for Phelps. It's important for
him to have a wife who's his age but with a touch of gray, a mature wife
who looks nice in an evening dress and diamonds and can hold her own
while gabbing with his boring friends. We go out three times a year. I'm
sort of an aging trophy wife."

"Seems to me like he'd want a real trophy wife, one of the slinky
blondes."

"No. His family would be crushed, and there's a lot of money in
trust. Phelps walks on eggshells around his family. When his parents are
gone, then he'll be ready to come out of the closet."

"I thought his parents hated you."

"Of course they do. It's ironic that they're the reason we're still mar-
ried. A divorce would be scandalous."

Adam laughed and shook his head in bewilderment. "This is crazy."

"Yes, but it works. I'm happy. He's happy. He has his little girls. I fool
around with whomever I want. No questions are asked."

"What about Walt?"

She slowly sat her glass of tea on the table and looked away. "What
about him?" she said, without looking.

"You never talk about him."

"I know," she said softly, still watching something across the room.

"Let me guess. More skeletons in the closet. More secrets."

She looked at him sadly, then gave a slight shrug as if to say, what the
heU.

"He is, after all, my first cousin," Adam said. "And to my knowledge,
and barring any further revelations, he's the only first cousin I have."

"You wouldn't Hke him."

"Of course not. He's part Cayhall."

"No. He's all Booth. Phelps wanted a son, why I don't know. And so
we had a son. Phelps, of course, had little time for him. Always too busy
with the bank. He took him to the country club and tried to teach him
golf, but it didn't work. Walt never liked sports. They went to Canada
once to hunt pheasants, and didn't speak to each other for a week when
they came home. He wasn't a sissy, but he wasn't athletic either. Phelps
was a big prep school jock — football, rugby, boxing, aU that. Walt tried

164 JOHN GRISHAM

to play, but the talent just wasn't there. Phelps drove him even harder,
and Walt rebelled. So, Phelps, with the typical heavy hand, sent him
away to boarding school. My son left home at the age of fifteen."

"Where did he go to college?"

"He spent one year at Cornell, then dropped out."

"He dropped out?"

"Yes. He went to Europe after his freshman year, and he's been there
ever since."

Adam studied her face and waited for more. He sipped his water, and
was about to speak when the waiter appeared and rapidly placed a large
bowl of green salad between them.

"Why did he stay in Europe?"

"He went to Amsterdam and fell in love."

"A nice Dutch girl?"

"A nice Dutch boy."
1 see.

She was suddenly interested in the salad, which she served on her
plate and began cutting into small pieces. Adam did likewise, and they
ate in silence for a while as the bistro filled up and became noisier. An
attractive couple of tired yuppies sat at the small table next to them and
ordered strong drinks.

Adam smeared butter on a roll, took a bite, then asked, "How did
Phelps react?"

She wiped the corners of her mouth. "The last trip Phelps and I took
together was to Amsterdam to find our son. He'd been gone for almost
two years. He'd written a few times and called me occasionally, but then
all correspondence stopped. We were worried, of course, so we flew
over and camped out in a hotel until we found him."

"What was he doing?"

"Working as a waiter in a cafe. Had an earring in each ear. His hair
was chopped off. Weird clothes. He was wearing those damned clogs
with wool socks. Spoke perfect Dutch. We didn't want to make a scene,
so we asked him to come to our hotel. He did. It was horrible. Just
horrible. Phelps handled it Hke the idiot he is, and the damage was
irreparable. We left and came home. Phelps made a big production of
redoing his wiU and revoking Walt's trust."

"He's never come home?"

"Never. I meet him in Paris once a year. We both arrive alone, that's
the only rule. We stay in a nice hotel and spend a week together, roam-
ing the city, eating the food, visiting the museums. It's the highlight of
my year. But he hates Memphis."

"I'd Uke to meet him."

THE CHAMBER 165

Lee watched him carefully, then her eyes watered. "Bless you. If
you're serious, I'd love for you to go with me."

"I'm serious. I don't care if he's gay. I'd enjoy meeting my first
cousin."

She took a deep breath and smiled. The ravioli arrived on two heap-
ing plates with steam rising in all directions. A long loaf of garHc bread
was placed along the edge of the table, and the waiter was gone.

"Does Walt know about Sam?" Adam asked.

"No. I've never had the guts to tell him."

"Does he know about me and Carmen? About Eddie? About any of
our family's glorious history?"

"Yes, a little. When he was a little boy, I told him he had cousins in
California, but that they never came to Memphis. Phelps, of course, told
him that his California cousins were of a much lower social class and
therefore not worthy of his attention. Walt was groomed by his father to
be a snob, Adam, you must understand this. He attended the most presti-
gious prep schools, hung out at the nicest country clubs, and his family
consisted of a bunch of Booth cousins who were all the same. They're all
miserable people."

"What do the Booths think of having a homosexual in the family?"

"They hate him, of course. And he hates them."

"I like him already."

"He's not a bad kid. He wants to study art and paint. I send him
money all the time."

"Does Sam know he has a gay grandson?"

"I don't think so. I don't know who would tell him."

"I probably won't teU him."

"Please don't. He has enough on his mind."

The ravioli cooled enough to eat, and they enjoyed it in silence. The
waiter brought more water and tea. The couple next to them ordered a
bottle of red wine, and Lee glanced at it more than once.

Adam wiped his mouth and rested for a moment. He leaned over the
table. "Can I ask you something personal?" he said quietly.

"All your questions seem to be personal."

"Right. So can I ask you one more?"

"Please do."

"Well, I was just thinking. Tonight you've told me you're an alco-
holic, your husband's an animal, and your son is gay. That's a lot for one
meal. But is there anything else I should know?"

"Lemme see. Yes, Phelps is an alcoholic too, but he won't admit it."

"Anything else?"

166 JOHN GRISHAM

"He's been sued twice for sexual harassment."

"Okay. Forget about the Booths. Any more surprises from our side of
the family?"

"We haven't scratched the surface, Adam."
"I was afraid of that."

EIGHTEEN

ALOUD THUNDERSTORM rolled across the Delta before
dawn, and Sam was awakened by the crack of lightning. He
heard raindrops dropping hard against the open windows above
the hallway. Then he heard them drip and puddle against the wall under
the windows not far from his cell. The dampness of his bed was suddenly
cool. Maybe today would not be so hot. Maybe the rain would linger
and shade the sun, and maybe the wind would blow away the humidity
for a day or two. He always had these hopes when it rained, but in the
summer a thunderstorm usually meant soggy ground which under a
glaring sun meant nothing but more suffocating heat.

He raised his head and watched the rain fall from the windows and
gather on the floor. The water flickered in the reflected light of a distant
yellow bulb. Except for this faint light, the Row was dark. And it was
silent.

Sam loved the rain, especially at night and especially in the summer.
The State of Mississippi, in its boundless wisdom, had built its prison in
the hottest place it could fmd. And it designed its Maximum Security
Unit along the same lines as an oven. The windows to the outside were
small and useless, built that way for security reasons, of course. The
planners of this Uttle branch of hell also decided that there would be no
ventilation of any sort, no chance for a breeze getting in or the dank air
getting out. And after they built what they considered to be a model
penal facility, they decided they would not air condition it. It would sit
proudly beside the soybeans and cotton, and absorb the same heat and

168 JOHN GRISHAM

moisture from the ground. And when the land was dry, the Row would
simply bake along with the crops.

But the State of Mississippi could not control the weather, and when
the rains came and cooled the air, Sam smiled to himself and offered a
small prayer of thanks. A higher being was in control after all. The state
was helpless when it rained. It was a small victory.

He eased to his feet and stretched his back. His bed consisted of a
piece of foam, six feet by two and a half, four inches thick, otherwise
known as a mattress. It rested on a metal frame fastened securely to the
floor and wall. It was covered w^ith two sheets. Sometimes they passed
out blankets in the winter. Back pain was common throughout the
Row, but with time the body adjusted and there were few complaints.
The prison doctor was not considered to be a friend of death row in-
mates.

He took two steps and leaned on his elbows through the bars. He
Hstened to the wind and thunder, and watched the drops bounce along
the windowsiU and splatter on the floor. How nice it would be to step
through that wall and walk through the wet grass on the other side, to
stroll around the prison grounds in the driving rain, naked and crazy,
soaking wet with water dripping from his hair and beard.

The horror of death row is that you die a Uttle each day. The waiting
kills you. You live in a cage and when you wake up you mark off another
day and you tell yourself that you are now one day closer to death.

Sam lit a cigarette and watched the smoke float upward toward the
raindrops. Weird things happen with our absurd judicial system. Courts
rule this way one day and the other way the next. The same judges reach
different conclusions on familiar issues. A court will ignore a wild mo-
tion or appeal for years, then one day embrace it and grant relief. Judges
die and they're replaced by judges who think differently. Presidents
come and go and they appoint their pals to the bench. The Supreme
Court drifts one way, then another.

At times, death would be welcome. And if given the choice of death
on one hand, or life on death row on the other, Sam would quickly take
the gas. But there was alw^ays hope, always the sHght glimmering promise
that something somewhere in the vast maze of the judicial jungle would
strike a chord with someone, and his case would be reversed. Every
resident of the Row dreamed of the miracle reversal firom heaven. And
their dreams sustained them from one miserable day to the next.

Sam had recently read that there were almost twenty-five hundred
inmates sentenced to die in America, and last year, 1989, only sixteen
were executed. Mississippi had executed only four since 1977, the year

THECHAMBER 169

Gary Gilmore insisted on a firing squad in Utah. There was safety in
those numbers. They fortified his resolve to file even more appeals.

He smoked through the bars as the storm passed and the rain stopped.
He took his breakfast as the sun rose, and at seven o'clock he turned on
the television for the morning news. He had just bitten into a piece of
cold toast when suddenly his face appeared on the screen behind a
Memphis morning anchorperson. She eagerly reported the thrilling top
story of the day, the bizarre case of Sam Cayhall and his new lawyer.
Seems his new lawyer was his long-lost grandson, one Adam Hall, a
young lawyer from the mammoth Chicago firm of Kravitz & Bane, the
outfit who'd represented Sam for the past seven years or so. The photo
of Sam was at least ten years old, the same one they used every time his
name was mentioned on TV or in print. The photo of Adam was a bit
stranger. He obviously had not posed for it. Someone had snapped it
outdoors while he wasn't looking. She explained with wild eyes that the
Memphis Press was reporting this morning that Adam Hall had confirmed
that he was in fact the grandson of Sam Cayhall. She gave a fleeting
sketch of Sam's crime, and twice gave the date of his pending execution.
More on the story later, she promised, perhaps maybe as soon as the
"Noon Report." Then she was off on the morning summary of last
night's murders.

Sam threw the toast on the floor next to the bookshelves and stared at
it. An insect found it almost immediately and crawled over and around it
a half dozen times before deciding it wasn't worth eating. His lawyer had
already talked to the press. What do they teach these people in law
school? Do they give instruction on media control?

"Sam, you there?" It was Gullitt.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"Just saw you on channel four."

"Yeah. I saw it."

"You pissed?"

"I'm okay."

"Take a deep breath, Sam. It's okay."

Among men sentenced to die in the gas chamber, the expression
"Take a deep breath" was used often and considered nothing more than
an effort at humor. They said it to each other aU the time, usually when
one was angry. But when used by the guards it was far from funny. It
was a constitutional violation. It had been mentioned in more than one
lawsuit as an example of the cruel treatment dispensed on death row.

Sam agreed with the insect and ignored the rest of his breakfast. He
sipped coffee and stared at the floor.

170 JOHN GRISHAM

AT NINE-THIRTY, Sergeant Packer was on the tier looking for Sam.
It was time for his hour of fresh air. The rains were far away and the sun
was blistering the Delta. Packer had two guards with him and a pair of
leg irons. Sam pointed at the chains, and asked, "What are they for?"

"They're for security, Sam."

"I'm just going out to play, aren't I?"

"No, Sam. We're taking you to the law Hbrary. Your lawyer wants to
meet you there so y'aU can talk amongst the law books. Now turn
around."

Sam stuck both hands through the opening of his door. Packer cufifed
them loosely, then the door opened and Sam stepped into the hall. The
guards dropped to their knees and were securing the leg irons when Sam
asked Packer, "What about my hour out?"

"What about it?"

"When do I get it?"

"Later."

"You said that yesterday and I didn't get my rec time. You Hed to me
yesterday. Now you're lying to me again. I'U sue you for this."

"Lawsuits take a long time, Sam. They take years."

"I want to talk to the warden."

"And I'm sure he wants to talk to you too, Sam. Now, do you want
to see your lawyer or not?"

"I have a right to my lawyer and I have a right to my rec time."

"Get off his ass, Packer!" Hank Henshaw shouted from less than six
feet away.

"You lie. Packer! You He!" J. B. Gullitt added from the other side.

"Down, boys," Packer said coolly. "We'll take care of old Sam, here."

"Yeah, you'd gas him today if you could," Henshaw yelled.

The leg irons were in place, and Sam shuffled into his cell to get a file.
He clutched it to his chest and waddled down the tier with Packer at his
side and the guards following.

"Give 'em hell, Sam," Henshaw yelled as they walked away.

There were other shouts of support for Sam and catcalls at Packer as
they left the tier. They were cleared through a set of doors and Tier A
was behind them.

"The warden says you get two hours out this afternoon, and two
hours a day till it's over," Packer said as they moved slowly through a
short hallway.

"TiU what's over?"

"This thang."

"What thang?"

Packer and most of the guards referred to an execution as a thang.

THE CHAMBER 171

"You know what I mean," Packer said.

"Tell the warden he's a real sweetheart. And ask him if I get two hours
if this thang doesn't go off, okay? And while you're at it, tell him I think
he's a lying son of a bitch."

"He already knows."

They stopped at a wall of bars and waited for the door to open. They
passed through it and stopped again by two guards at the front door.
Packer made quick notes on a clipboard, and they walked outside where
a white van was waiting. The guards took Sam by the arms and lifted
him and his chains into the side door. Packer sat in the front with the
driver.

"Does this thing have air conditioning?" Sam snapped at the driver,
whose window was down.

"Yep," the driver said as they backed away from the front of MSU.

"Then turn the damned thing on, okay."

"Knock it off, Sam," Packer said without conviction.

"It's bad enough to sweat all day in a cage with no air conditioning,
but it's pretty stupid to sit here and suffocate. Turn the damned thing on.
I've got my rights."

"Take a deep breath, Sam," Packer drawled and winked at the driver.

"That'll cost you, Packer. You'll wish you hadn't said that."

The driver hit a switch and the air started blowing. The van was
cleared through the double gates and slowly made its way down the dirt
road away from the Row.

Though he was handcuffed and shackled, this brief journey on the
outside was refreshing. Sam stopped the bitching and immediately ig-
nored the others in the van. The rains had left puddles in the grassy
ditches beside the road, and they had washed the cotton plants, now
more than knee-high. The stalks and leaves were dark green. Sam re-
membered picking cotton as a boy, then quickly dismissed the thought.
He had trained his mind to forget the past, and on those rare occasions
when a childhood memory flashed before him, he quickly snuffed it out.

The van crept along, and he was thankful for this. He stared at two
inmates sitting under a tree watching a buddy lift weights in the sun.
There was a fence around them, but how nice, he thought, to be outside
walking and talking, exercising and lounging, never giving a thought to
the gas chamber, never worrying about the last appeal.

THE LAW LIBRARY was known as the Twig because it was too small
to be considered a full branch. The main prison law library was deeper
into the farm, at another camp. The Twig was used exclusively by death
row inmates. It was stuck to the rear of an administration building, with

172 JOHN GRISHAM

only one door and no windows. Sam had been there many times during
the past nine years. It was a small room with a decent collection of
current law books and up-to-date reporting services. A battered confer-
ence table sat in the center with shelves of books Hning the four walls.
Every now and then a trustee would volunteer to serve as the librarian,
but good help was hard to find and the books were seldom where they
were supposed to be. This irritated Sam immensely because he admired
neatness and he despised the Africans, and he was certain that most if not
all of the librarians were black, though he did not know this for a fact.

The two guards unshackled Sam at the door.

"You got two hours," Packer said.

"I got as long as I want," Sam said, rubbing his wrists as if the
handcuffs had broken them.

"Sure, Sam. But when I come after you in two hours, I'U bet we load
your gimpy Httle ass into the van."

Packer opened the door as the guards took their positions beside it.
Sam entered the library and slammed the door behind him. He laid his
file on the table and stared at his lawyer.

Adam stood at the far end of the conference table, holding a book and
waiting for his client. He'd heard voices outside, and he watched Sam
enter the room without guards or handcuffs. He stood there in his red
jumpsuit, much smaller now without the thick metal screen between
them.

They studied each other for a moment across the table, grandson and
grandfather, lawyer and cHent, stranger and stranger. It was an awkward
interval in which they sized each other up and neither knew what to do
with the other.

"Hello, Sam," Adam said, walking toward him.

"Mornin'. Saw us on TV a few hours ago."

"Yeah. Have you seen the paper?"

"Not yet. It comes later."

Adam slid the morning paper across the table and Sam stopped it. He
held it with both hands, eased into a chair, and raised the paper to within
six inches of his nose. He read it carefully and studied the pictures of
himself and Adam.

Todd Marks had evidently spent most of the evening digging and
making frantic phone calls. He had verified that one Alan CayhaU had
been born in Clanton, in Ford County, in 1964, and the father's name
Hsted on the birth certificate was one Edward S. CayhaU. He checked
the birth certificate for Edward S. CayhaU and found that his father was
Samuel Lucas CayhaU, the same man now on death row. He reported
that Adam HaU had confirmed that his father's name had been changed

THE CHAMBER 173

in California, and that his grandfather was Sam Cayhall. He was careful
not to attribute direct quotes to Adam, but he nonetheless violated their
agreement. There was little doubt the two had talked.

Quoting unnamed sources, the story explained how Eddie and his
family left Clanton in 1967 after Sam's arrest, and fled to California
where Eddie later killed himself The trail ended there because Marks
obviously ran out of time late in the day and could confirm nothing
from CaHfornia. The unnamed source or sources didn't mention Sam's
daughter living in Memphis, so Lee was spared. The story ran out of
steam with a series of no-comments from Baker Cooley, Garner Good-
man, Phillip Naifeh, Lucas Mann, and a lawyer with the Attorney Gen-
eral's office in Jackson. Marks finished strong, though, with a sensational
recap of the Kramer bombing.

The story was on the front page of the Press, above the main headline.
The ancient picture of Sam was to the right, and next to it was a strange
photo of Adam from the waist up. Lee had brought the paper to him
hours earlier as he sat on the terrace and watched the early morning river
traffic. They drank coffee and juice, and read and reread the story. After
much analysis, Adam had decided that Todd Marks had placed a photog-
rapher across the street from the Peabody Hotel, and when Adam left
their little meeting yesterday and stepped onto the sidewalk, he got his
picture taken. The suit and tie were definitely worn yesterday.

"Did you talk to this clown?" Sam growled as he placed the paper on
the table. Adam sat across from him.

"We met."

"Why?"

"Because he called our office in Memphis, said he'd heard some ru-
mors, and I wanted him to get it straight. It's no big deal."

"Our pictures on the front page is no big deal?"

"You've been there before."

"And you?"

"I didn't exactly pose. It was an ambush, you see. But I think I look
rather dashing."

"Did you confirm these facts for him?"

"I did. We agreed it would be background, and he could not quote
me on anything. Nor was he supposed to use me as a source. He violated
our agreement, and ripped his ass with me. He also planted a photogra-
pher, so I've spoken for the first and last time to the Meifiphis Press."

Sam looked at the paper for a moment. He was relaxed, and his words
were as slow as ever. He managed a trace of a smile. "And you con-
firmed that you are my grandson?"

"Yes. Can't really deny it, can I?"

174 JOHN GRISHAM

"Do you want to deny it?"

"Read the paper, Sam. If I wanted to deny it, would it be on the front
page?"

This satisfied Sam, and the smile grew a bit. He bit his Hp and stared at
Adam. Then he methodically removed a fresh pack of cigarettes, and
Adam glanced around for a window.

After the first one was properly lit, Sam said, "Stay away from the
press. They're ruthless and they're stupid. They He and they make care-
less mistakes."

"But I'm a lawyer, Sam. It's inbred."

"I know. It's hard, but try to control yourself I don't want it to
happen again."

Adam reached into his briefcase, smiled, and pulled out some papers.
"I have a wonderful idea how to save your Ufe." He rubbed his hands
together then removed a pen from his pocket. It was time for work.

"I'm listening."

"Well, as you might guess, I've been doing a lot of research."

"That's what you're paid to do."

"Yes. And I've come up with a marvelous Httle theory, a new claim
which I intend to file on Monday. The theory is simple. Mississippi is
one of only five states stiU using the gas chamber, right?"

"That's right."

"And the Mississippi Legislature in 1984 passed a law giving a con-
demned man the choice of dying by lethal injection or in the gas cham-
ber. But the new law applies only to those convicted after July 1, 1984.
Doesn't apply to you."

"That's correct. I think about half the guys on the Row wiU get their
choice. It's years away, though."

"One of the reasons the legislature approved lethal injection was to
make the killings more humane. I've studied the legislative history be-
hind the law and there was a lot of discussion of problems the state's had
with gas chamber executions. The theory is simple: make the executions
quick and painless, and there will be fewer constitutional claims that they
are cruel. Lethal injections raise fewer legal problems, thus the killings
are easier to carry out. Our theory, then, is that since the state has
adopted lethal injection, it has in effect said that the gas chamber is
obsolete. And why is it obsolete? Because it's a cruel way to kiU people."

Sam puffed on this for a minute and nodded slowly. "Keep going," he
said.

"We attack the gas chamber as a method of execution."

"Do you limit it to Mississippi?"

THE CHAMBER 175

"Probably. I know there were problems with Teddy Doyle Meeks and
Maynard Tole."

Sam snorted and blew smoke across the table. "Problems? You could
say that."

"How much do you know?"

"Come on. They died within fifty yards of me. We sit in our cells all
day long and think about death. Everyone on the Row knows what
happened to those boys."

"Tell me about them."

Sam leaned forward on his elbows and stared absently at the newspa-
per in front of him. "Meeks was the first execution in Mississippi in ten
years, and they didn't know what they were doing. It was 1982. I'd been
here for almost two years, and until then we were living in a dream
world. We never thought about the gas chamber and cyanide pellets and
last meals. We were sentenced to die, but, hell, they weren't killing
anyone, so why worry? But Meeks woke us up. They killed him, so they
could certainly kill the rest of us."

"What happened to him?" Adam had read a dozen stories about the
botched execution of Teddy Doyle Meeks, but he wanted to hear it from
Sam.

"Everything went wrong. Have you seen the chamber?"

"Not yet."

"There's a little room off to the side where the executioner mixes his
solution. The sulfuric acid is in a canister which he takes from his little
laboratory to a tube running into the bottom of the chamber. With
Meeks, the executioner was drunk."

"Come on, Sam."

"I didn't see him, okay. But everyone knows he was drunk. State law
designates an official state executioner, and the warden and his gang
didn't think about it until just a few hours before the execution. Keep in
mind, no one thought Meeks would die. We were all waiting on a last
minute stay, because he'd been through it twice already. But there was
no stay, and they scrambled around at the last minute trying to locate the
official state executioner. They found him, drunk. He was a plumber, I
think. Anyway, his first batch of brew didn't work. He placed the canis-
ter into the tube, pulled a lever, and everyone waited for Meeks to take a
deep breath and die. Meeks held his breath as long as he could, then
inhaled. Nothing happened. They waited. Meeks waited. The witnesses
waited. Everybody slowly turned to the executioner, who was also wait-
ing and cussing. He went back to his little room, and fixed up another
mix of sulfuric acid. Then he had to retrieve the old canister from the
chute, and that took ten minutes. The warden and Lucas Mann and the

176 JOHN GRISHAM

rest of the goons were standing around waiting and fidgeting and cussing
this drunk plumber, who finally plugged in the new canister and pulled
the lever. This time the sulfiiric acid landed where it was supposed to —
in a bowl under the chair where Meeks was strapped. The executioner
pulled the second lever dropping the cyanide pellets, which were also
under the chair, hovering above the sulfiiric acid. The pellets dropped,
and sure enough, the gas drifted upward to where old Meeks was hold-
ing his breath again. You can see the vapors, you know. When he finally
sucked in a nose fuU of it, he started shaking and jerking, and this went
on quite a while. For some reason, there's a metal pole that runs from
the top of the chamber to the bottom, and it's directly behind the chair.
Just about the time Meeks got still and everybody thought he was dead,
his head started banging back and forth, striking this pole, just beating it
like hell. His eyes were roUed back, his Hps were wide open, he was
foaming at the mouth, and there he was beating the back of his head in
on this pole. It was sick."

"How long did it take to kill him?"

"Who knows. According to the prison doctor, death was instant and
painless. According to some of the eyewitnesses, Meeks convulsed and
heaved and pounded his head for five minutes."

The Meeks execution had provided death penalty aboHtionists with
much ammunition. There was little doubt he had suffered greatly, and
many accounts were written of his death. Sam's version was remarkably
consistent with those of the eyewitnesses.

"Who told you about it?" Adam asked.

"A couple of the guards talked about it. Not to me, of course, but
word spread quickly. There was a pubHc outcry, which would' ve been
even worse if Meeks hadn't been such a despicable person. Everyone
hated him. And his Uttle victim had suffered greatly, so it was hard to feel
sympathetic."

"Where were you v^^hen he was executed?"

"In my first cell, Tier D, on the far side away from the chamber. They
locked everybody down that night, every inmate at Parchman. It hap-
pened just after midnight, which is sort of amusing because the state has
a fuU day to carry out the execution. The death warrant does not specify
a certain time, just a certain day. So these gung-ho bastards are just
itching to do it as soon as possible. They plan every execution for one
minute after midnight. That way, if there's a stay, then they have the
entire day for their lawyers to get it lifted. Buster Moac went down that
way. They strapped him in at midnight, then the phone rang and they
took him back to the holding room where he waited and sweated for six
hours while the lawyers ran from one court to the next. Finally, as the

THECHAMBER 177

sun was rising, they strapped him in for the last time. I guess you know
what his last words were."

Adam shook his head. "I have no idea."

"Buster was a friend of mine, a class guy. Naifeh asked him if he had
any last words, and he said yes, as a matter of fact, he did have something
to say. He said the steak they'd cooked for his last meal was a bit too rare.
Naifeh mumbled something to the effect that he'd speak to the cook
about it. Then Buster asked if the governor had granted a last minute
pardon. Naifeh said no. Buster then said, 'Well, tell that son of a bitch
he's lost my vote.' They slammed the door and gassed him."

Sam was obviously amused by this, and Adam was obliged to offer an
awkward laugh. He looked at his legal pad while Sam lit another ciga-
rette.

Four years after the execution of Teddy Doyle Meeks, the appeals of
Maynard Tole reached a dead end and it was time for the chamber to be
used again. Tole was a Kravitz & Bane pro bono project. A young lawyer
named Peter Wiesenberg represented Tole, under the supervision of
E. Garner Goodman. Both Wiesenberg and Goodman witnessed the
execution, which in many ways was dreadfully similar to Meeks'. Adam
had not discussed the Tole execution with Goodman, but he'd studied
the file and read the eyewitness accounts written by Wiesenberg and
Goodman.

"What about Maynard Tole?" Adam asked.

"He was an African, a militant who killed a bunch of people in a
robbery and, of course, blamed everything on the system. Always re-
ferred to himself as an African warrior. He threatened me several times,
but for the most part he was just selling wolf"

"Selling wolf?"

"Yeah, that means a guy is talking bad, talking trash. It's common
with the Africans. They're all innocent, you know. Every damned one
of them. They're here because they're black and the system is white, and
even though they've raped and murdered it's someone else's fault. Al-
ways, always someone else's fault."

"So you were happy when he went?"

"I didn't say that. Killing is wrong. It's wrong for the Africans to kill.
It's wrong for the Anglos to kill. And it's wrong for the people of the
State of Mississippi to kill death row inmates. What I did was wrong, so
how do you make it right by killing me?"

"Did Tole suffer?"

"Same as Meeks. They found them a new executioner and he got it
right the first time. The gas hit Tole and he went into convulsions,
started banging his head on the pole just like Meeks, except Tole evi-

178 JOHN GRISHAM

dently had a harder head because he kept beating the pole with it. It
went on and on, and finally Naifeh and the goon squad got real anxious
because the boy wouldn't die and things were getting sloppy, so they
actually made the witnesses leave the witness room. It was pretty nasty."

"I read somewhere that it took ten minutes for him to die."

"He fought it hard, that's all I know. Of course, the warden and his
doctor said death was instant and painless. Typical. They did, however,
make one sHght change in their procedure after Tole. By the time they
got to my buddy Moac, they had designed this cute Httle head brace
made of leather straps and buckles and attached to that damned pole.
With Moac, and later with Jumbo Parris, they belted their heads down
so tight there was no way they could flop around and whip the pole. A
nice touch, don't you think? That makes it easier on Naifeh and the
witnesses because now they don't have to watch as much suffering."

"You see my point, Sam? It's a horrible way to die. We attack the
method. We find witnesses who'U testify about these executions and we
try to convince a judge to rule the gas chamber unconstitutional."

"So what? Do we then ask for lethal injection? What's the point?
Seems kind of silly for me to say I prefer not to die in the chamber, but,
what the heU, lethal injection wiU do just fine. Put me on the gurney
and fill me up with drugs. I'll be dead, right? I don't get it."

"True. But we buy ourselves some time. We'U attack the gas chamber,
get a temporary stay, then pursue it through the higher courts. We could
jam this thing for years."

"It's already been done."

"What do you mean it's already been done?"

"Texas, 1983. Case called Larson. The same arguments were made
with no result. The court said gas chambers have been around for fifty
years, and they've proven themselves quite efficient at killing humanely."

"Yeah, but there's one big difference."

"What?"

"This ain't Texas. Meeks and Tole and Moac and Parris weren't gassed
in Texas. And, by the way, Texas has already gone to lethal injection.
They threw away their gas chamber because they found a better way to
kill. Most gas chamber states have traded them in for better technology."

Sam stood and walked to the other end of the table. "Well, when it's
my time, I damned sure want to go with the latest technology." He
paced along the table, back and forth three or four times, then stopped.
"It's eighteen feet from one end of this room to the other. I can walk
eighteen feet without hitting bars. Do you reaHze what it's Hke spending
twenty-three hours a day in a cell that's six feet by nine? This is fireedom,
man." He paced some more, puffing as he came and went.

THE CHAMBER 179

Adam watched the frail figure bounce along the edge of the table with
a trail of smoke behind him. He had no socks and wore navy-colored
rubber shower shoes that squeaked when he paced. He suddenly
stopped, yanked a book from a shelf, threw it hard on the table, and
began flipping pages with a flourish. After a few minutes of intense
searching, he found exactly what he was looking for and spent five
minutes reading it.

"Here it is," he mumbled to himself. "I knew I'd read this before."

"What is it?"

"A 1984 case from North Carolina. The man's name was Jimmy Old,
and evidently Jimmy did not want to die. They had to drag him into the
chamber, kicking and crying and screaming, and it took a while to strap
him in. They slammed the door and dropped the gas, and his chin
crashed onto his chest. Then his head rolled back and began twitching.
He turned to the witnesses who could see nothing but the whites of his
eyeballs, and he began salivating. His head rocked and swung around
forever while his body shook and his mouth foamed. It went on and on,
and one of the witnesses, a journalist, vomited. The warden got fed up
with it and closed the black curtains so the witnesses couldn't see any-
more. They estimate it took fourteen minutes for Jimmy Old to die."

"Sounds cruel to me."

Sam closed the book and placed it carefully onto the shelf He lit a
cigarette and studied the ceiling. "Virtually every gas chamber was built
long ago by Eaton Metal Products in Salt Lake City. I read somewhere
that Missouri's was built by inmates. But our little chamber was built by
Eaton, and they're all basically the same — made of steel, octagonal in
shape with a series of windows placed here and there so folks can watch
the death. There's not much room inside the actual chamber, just a
wooden seat with straps all over it. There's a metal bowl directly under
the chair, and just inches above the bowl is a Httle bag of cyanide tablets
which the executioner controls with a lever. He also controls the sulfuric
acid which is introduced into the affair by means of the canister. The
canister makes its way through a tube to the bowl, and when the bowl
fills with acid, he pulls the lever and drops the cyanide pellets. This
causes the gas, which of course causes death, which of course is designed
to be painless and quick."

"Wasn't it designed to replace the electric chair?"

"Yes. Back in the twenties and thirties, everyone had an electric chair,
and it was just the most marvelous device ever invented. I remember as a
boy they had a portable electric chair which they simply loaded into a
trailer and took around to the various counties. They'd puU up at the
local jail, bring 'em out in shackles, line 'em up outside the trailer, then

180 JOHN GRISHAM

run 'em through. It was an eflficient way to alleviate overcrowded jails."
He shook his head in disbelief. "Anyway, they, of course, had no idea
what they were doing, and there were some horrible stories of people
suffering. This is capital punishment, right? Not capital torture. And it
wasn't just Mississippi. Many states were using these old, half-ass rigged
electric chairs with a bunch of jakelegs pulling the switches, and there
were all sorts of problems. They'd strap in some poor guy, pull the
switch, give him a good jolt but not good enough, guy was roasting on
the inside but wouldn't die, so they'd wait a few minutes, and hit him
again. This might go on for fifteen minutes. They wouldn't fasten the
electrodes properly, and it was not uncommon for flames and sparks to
shoot from the eyes and ears. I read an account of a guy who received an
improper voltage. The steam built up in his head and his eyeballs popped
out. Blood ran down his face. During an electrocution, the skin gets so
hot that they can't touch the guy for a while, so in the old days they had
to let him cool off before they could tell if he was dead. There are lots of
stories about men who would sit still after the initial jolt, then start
breathing again. So they would of course hit 'em with another current.
This might happen four or five times. It was awful, so this Army doctor
invented the gas chamber as a more humane way to kill people. It is
now, as you say, obsolete because of lethal injection."

Sam had an audience, and Adam was captivated. "How many men
have died in Mississippi's chamber?" he asked.

"It was first used here in 1954, or thereabouts. Between then and
1970, they kiUed thirty-five men. No women. After Furman in 1972, it
sat idle until Teddy Doyle Meeks in 1982. They've used it three times
since then, so that's a total of thirty-nine. I'll be number forty."

He began pacing again, now much slower. "It's a terribly inefficient
way to kiU people," he said, much like a professor in front of a classroom.
"And it's dangerous. Dangerous of course to the poor guy strapped in
the chair, but also to those outside the chamber. These damned things
are old and they all leak to some degree. The seals and gaskets rot and
crumble, and the cost of building a chamber that will not leak is prohibi-
tive. A small leak could be deadly to the executioner or anyone standing
nearby. There are always a handful of people — Naifeh, Lucas Mann,
maybe a minister, the doctor, a guard or two — standing in the Httle
room just outside the chamber. There are two doors to this little room,
and they are always closed during an execution. If any of the gas leaked
from the chamber into the room, it would probably hit Naifeh or Lucas
Mann and they'd croak right there on the floor. Not a bad idea, come to
think of it.

"The witnesses are also in a great deal of danger, and they don't have a

THE CHAMBER 181

clue. There's nothing between them and the chamber except for a row
of windows, which are old and equally subject to leakage. They're also
in a small room with the door closed, and if there's a gas leak of any size
these gawking fools get gassed too.

"But the real danger comes afterward. There's a wire they stick to
your ribs and it runs through a hole in the chamber to outside where a
doctor monitors the heartbeat. Once the doctor says the guy is dead,
they open a valve on top of the chamber and the gas is supposed to
evaporate. Most of it does. They'll wait fifteen minutes or so, then open
the door. The cooler air from the outside that's used to evacuate the
chamber causes a problem because it mixes with the remaining gas and
condenses on everything inside. It creates a death trap for anyone going
in. It's extremely dangerous, and most of these clowns don't reaHze how
serious it is. There's a residue of prussic acid on everything — walls, win-
dows, floor, ceiling, door, and, of course, the dead guy.

"They spray the chamber and the corpse with ammonia to neutralize
the remaining gas, then the removal team or whatever it's called goes in
with oxygen masks. They'll wash the inmate a second time with ammo-
nia or chlorine bleach because the poison oozes through the pores in the
skin. While he's still strapped in the chair, they cut his clothes off, put
them in a bag, and burn them. In the old days they allowed the guy to
wear only a pair of shorts so their job would be easier. But now they're
such sweethearts they allow us to wear whatever we want. So if I get that
far, rU have a hell of a time selecting my wardrobe."

He actually spat on the floor as he thought about this. He cursed
under his breath and stomped around the far end of the table.

"What happens to the body?" Adam asked, somewhat ashamed to
tread on such sensitive matters but nonetheless anxious to complete the
story.

Sam grunted a time or two, then stuck the cigarette in his mouth.
"Do you know the extent of my wardrobe?"

"No."

"Consists of two of these red monkey suits, four or five sets of clean
underwear, and one pair of these cute little rubber shower shoes that
look like leftovers from a nigger fire sale. I refuse to die in one of these
red suits. I've thought about exercising my constitutional rights and pa-
rading into the chamber buck naked. Wouldn't that be a sight? Can you
see those goons trying to shove me around and strap me in and trying
Hke hell not to touch my privates. And when they get me strapped
down, I'U reach over and take the little heart monitor gizmo and attach it
to my testicles. Wouldn't the doctor love that? And I'd make sure the
witnesses saw my bare ass. I think that's what I'll do."

182 JOHNGRISHAM

"What happens to the body?" Adam asked again.

"Well, once it's sufficiently washed and disinfected, they dress it in
prison garb, puU it out of the chair, then put it in a body bag. They place
it on a stretcher which goes into the ambulance which takes it to a
funeral home somewhere. The family takes over at that point. Most
famlHes."

Sam was now standing with his back to Adam, talking to a wall and
leaning on a bookshelf He was silent for a long time, silent and stiU as he
gazed into the corner and thought about the four men he'd known who
had already gone to the chamber. There was an unwritten rule on the
Row that when your time came you did not go to the chamber in a red
prison suit. You did not give them the satisfaction of killing you in the
clothes they'd forced you to wear.

Maybe his brother, the one who sent the monthly supply of cigarettes,
would help with a shirt and a pair of pants. New socks would be nice.
And anything but the rubber shower shoes. He'd rather go barefoot than
wear those damned things.

He turned and walked slowly to Adam's end of the table and took a
seat. "I like this idea," he said, very quiet and composed. "It's worth a
try."

"Good. Let's get to work. I want you to fmd more cases Uke Jimmy
Old from North Carolina. Let's dig up every wretched and botched gas
chamber execution known to man. We'U throw 'em all in the lawsuit. I
want you to make a Hst of people who might testify about the Meeks and
Tole executions. Maybe even Moac and Parris."

Sam was already on his feet again, pulling books from shelves and
mumbhng to himself. He piled them on the table, dozens of them, then
buried himself among the stacks.

NINETEEN

THE ROLLING WHEAT FIELDS stretched for miles then grew
steeper as the foothills began. The majestic mountains lined the
farmland in the distance. In a sweeping vaUey above the fields,
with a view for miles in front and with the mountains as a barrier to the
rear, the Nazi compound lay sprawled over a hundred acres. Its barbed-
wire fences were camouflaged with hedgerow^s and underbrush. Its firing
ranges and combat grounds were Hkewise screened to prevent detection
from the air. Only two innocuous log cabins sat above the ground, and if
seen from the outside would appear only to be fishing lodges. But below
them, deep in the hills, were two shafts with elevators which dropped
into a maze of natural caverns and man-made caves. Large tunnels, wide
enough for golf carts, ran in aU directions and connected a dozen differ-
ent rooms. One room had a printing press. Two stored weapons, and
ammunition. Three large ones were Uving quarters. One was a small
Library. The largest room, a cavern forty feet from top to bottom, was
the central hall where the members gathered for speeches and films and
rallies.

It was a state-of-the-art compound, with satellite dishes feeding tele-
visions with news from around the world, and computers linked to other
compounds for the quick flow of information, and fax machines, cellular
phones, and every current electronic device in vogue.

No less than ten newspapers were received into the compound each
day, and they were taken to a table in a room next to the Hbrary where
they were first read by a man named Roland. He lived in the compound
most of the time, along with several other members who maintained the

184 JOHN GRISHAM

place. When the newspapers arrived from the city, usually around nine
in the morning, Roland poured himself a large cup of coffee and started
reading. It was not a chore. He had traveled the world many times, spoke
four languages, and had a voracious appetite for knowledge. If a story
caught his attention, he would mark it, and later he would make a copy
of it and give it to the computer desk.

His interests were varied. He barely scanned the sports, and never
looked at the want ads. Fashion, style, Hving, fanfare, and related sections
were browsed with little curiosity. He collected stories about groups
similar to his — ^Aryans, Nazis, the KKK. Lately, he'd been flagging many
stories from Germany and Eastern Europe, and was quite thrilled with
the rise of fascism there. He spoke fluent German and spent at least one
month a year in that great country. He watched the poHticians, with
their deep concern about hate crimes and their desire to restrict the
rights of groups such as his. He watched the Supreme Court. He fol-
lowed the trials of skinheads in the United States. He followed the
tribulations of the KKK.

He normally spent two hours each morning absorbing the latest news
and deciding which stories should be kept for future reference. It was
routine, but he enjoyed it immensely.

This particular morning would be different. The first glimpse of trou-
ble was a picture of Sam Cayhall buried deep in the front section of a San
Francisco daily. The story had but three paragraphs, but sufficiently cov-
ered the hot news that the oldest man on death row in America would
now be represented by his grandson. Roland read it three times before
he believed it, then marked the story to be saved. After an hour, he'd
read the same story five or six times. Two papers had the snapshot of
young Adam Hall that appeared on the front page of the Memphis paper
the day before.

Roland had followed the case of Sam Cayhall for many years, and for
several reasons. First, it was normally the type of case that would interest
their computers — an aging Klan terrorist from the sixties biding his time
on death row. The Cayhall printout was already a foot thick. Though he
was certainly no lawyer, Roland shared the prevailing opinion that Sam's
appeals had run their course and he was about to die. This suited Roland
just fine, but he kept his opinion to himself Sam CayhaU was a hero to
white supremacists, and Roland's own little band of Nazis had already
been asked to participate in demonstrations before the execution. They
had no direct contact with Cayhall because he had never answered their
letters, but he was a symbol and they wanted to make the most of his
death.

Roland's last name, Forchin, was of Cajun extraction from down

THECHAMBER 185

around Thibodaux. He had no Social Security number; never filed tax
returns; did not exist, as far as the government was concerned. He had
three beautifully forged passports, one of which was German, and one
allegedly issued by the Republic of Ireland. Roland crossed borders and
cleared immigration with no worries.

One of Roland's other names, known only to himself and never di-
vulged to a breathing soul, was Rollie Wedge. He had fled the United
States in 1967 after the Kramer bombing, and had lived in Northern
Ireland. He had also lived in Libya, Munich, Belfast, and Lebanon. He
had returned to the United States briefly in 1967 and 1968 to observe
the two trials of Sam Cayhall and Jeremiah Dogan. By then, he was
traveling effortlessly with perfect papers.

There had been a few other quick trips back to the United States, all
required because of the Cayhall mess. But as time passed, he worried
about it less. He had moved to this bunker three years earlier to spread
the message of Nazism. He no longer considered himself a Klansman.
Now, he was a proud fascist.

When he finished his morning reading, he had found the Cayhall
story in seven of the ten papers. He placed them in a metal basket, and
decided to see the sun. He poured more coflee in his Styrofoam cup, and
rode an elevator eighty feet to a foyer in a log cabin. It was a beautiful
day, cool and sunny, not a cloud to be seen. He walked upward along a
narrow trail toward the mountains, and within ten minutes was looking
at the valley below him. The wheat fields were in the distance.

Roland had been dreaming of Cayhall's death for twenty-three years.
They shared a secret, a heavy burden which would be lifted only when
Sam was executed. He admired the man greatly. Unlike Jeremiah
Dogan, Sam had honored his oath and never talked. Through three
trials, several lawyers, countless appeals, and millions of inquiries, Sam
Cayhall had never yielded. He was an honorable man, and Roland
wanted him dead. Oh sure, he'd been forced to deliver a few threats to
Cayhall and Dogan during the first two trials, but that was so long ago.
Dogan cracked under pressure, and he talked and testified against Sam.
And Dogan died.

This kid worried him. Like everyone else, Roland had lost track of
Sam's son and his family. He knew about the daughter in Memphis, but
the son had disappeared. And now this — this nice-looking, well-edu-
cated young lawyer from a big, rich Jewish law firm had popped up firom
nowhere and was primed to save his grandfather. Roland knew enough
about executions to understand that in the waning hours the lawyers try
everything. If Sam was going to crack, he would do it now, and he
would do it in the presence of his grandson.

186 JOHN GRISHAM

He tossed a rock down the hillside and watched it bounce out of sight.
He'd have to go to Memphis.

SATURDAY was typically just another day of hard labor at Kravitz &
Bane in Chicago, but things were a bit more laid-back at the Memphis
branch. Adam arrived at the office at nine and found only two other
attorneys and one paralegal at work. He locked himself in his room and
closed the blinds.

He and Sam had worked for two hours yesterday, and by the time
Packer returned to the law library with the handcuffs and the shackles
they had managed to cover the table with dozens of law books and legal
pads. Packer had waited impatiently as Sam slowly reshelved the books.

Adam reviewed their notes. He entered his own research into the
computer, and revised the petition for the third time. He had already
faxed a copy of it to Garner Goodman, who in turn had revised it and
sent it back.

Goodman was not optimistic about a fair hearing on the suit, but at
this stage of the proceedings there was nothing to lose. If by chance an
expedited hearing was held in federal court, Goodman was ready to
testify about the Maynard Tole execution. He and Peter Wiesenberg had
witnessed it. In fact, Wiesenberg had been so sickened by the sight of a
living person being gassed that he resigned firom the firm and took a job
teaching. His grandfather had survived the Holocaust; his grandmother
had not. Goodman promised to contact Wiesenberg, and felt confident
he too would testify.

By noon, Adam was tired of the office. He unlocked his door and
heard no sounds on the floor. The other lawyers were gone. He left the
building.

He drove west, over the river into Arkansas, past the truck stops and
dog track in West Memphis, and finally through the congestion and into
the farm country. He passed the hamlets of Earle and Parkin and
Wynne, where the hills began. He stopped for a Coke at a country
grocery where three old men in faded overalls sat on the porch swatting
flies and suffering in the heat. He lowered the convertible top and sped
away.

Two hours later he stopped again, this time in the town of Mountain
View to get a sandwich and ask directions. CaHco Rock was not far up
the road, he was told, just follow the White Paver. It was a lovely road,
winding through the foothills of the Ozarks, through heavy woods and
across mountain streams. The White River snaked its way along to the
left, and it was dotted with trout fishermen in jon boats.

Calico Rock was a small town on a bluff above the river. Three trout

THECHAMBER 187

docks lined the east bank near the bridge. Adam parked by the river and
walked to the first one, an outfitter called CaHco Marina. The building
floated on pontoons, and was held close to the bank by thick cables. A
row of empty rental boats was strung together next to the pier. The
pungent smell of gasoline and oil emanated from a solitary gas pump. A
sign listed the rates for boats, guides, gear, and fishing licenses.

Adam walked onto the covered dock and admired the river a few feet
away. A young man with dirty hands emerged from a back room and
asked if he could be of assistance. He examined Adam from top to
bottom, and apparently decided that he was no fisherman.

"I'm looking for Wyn Lettner."

The name Ron was stitched above the shirt pocket and slightly cov-
ered with a smudge of grease. Ron walked back to his room and yelled,
"Mr. Lettner!" in the direction of a screen door that led to a small shop.
Ron disappeared.

Wyn Lettner was a huge man, well over six feet tall with a large frame
that was quite overloaded. Garner had described him as a beer drinker,
and Adam remembered this as he glanced at the large stomach. He was
in his late sixties, with thinning gray hair tucked neatly under an
EVINRUDE cap. There were at least three newspaper photographs of
Special Agent Lettner indexed away somewhere in Adam's files, and in
each he was the standard G-Man — dark suit, white shirt, narrow tie,
military haircut. And he was much trimmer in those days.

"Yes sir," he said loudly as he walked through the screen door, wiping
crumbs from his lips. "I'm Wyn Lettner." He had a deep voice and a
pleasant smile.

Adam pushed forward a hand, and said, "I'm Adam Hall. Nice to
meet you."

Lettner took his hand and shook it furiously. His forearms were mas-
sive and his biceps bulged. "Yes sir," he boomed. "What can I do for
you?"

Thankfully the dock was deserted, with the exception of Ron, who
was out of sight but making noises with a tool in his room. Adam
fidgeted a bit, and said, "Well, I'm a law^yer, and I represent Sam
CayhaD."

The smile grew and revealed two rows of strong yellow teeth. "Got
your work cut out for you, don't you?" he said with a laugh and slapped
Adam on the back.

"I guess so," Adam said awkwardly as he waited for another assault.
"I'd like to talk about Sam."

Lettner was suddenly serious. He stroked his chin with a beefy hand
and studied Adam with narrow eyes. "I saw it in the papers, son. I know

188 JOHNGRISHAM

Sam's your grandfather. Must be tough on you. Gonna get tougher,
too." Then he smiled again. "Tougher on Sam as well." His eyes twin-
kled as if he'd just delivered a side-splitting punch Une and he wanted
Adam to double over with laughter.

Adam missed the humor. "Sam has less than a month, you know," he
said, certain that Lettner had also read about the execution date.

A heavy hand was suddenly on Adam's shoulder and was shoving him
in the direction of the shop. "Step in here, son. We'U talk about Sam.
You w^anna beer?"

"No. Thanks." They entered a narrow room with fishing gear hang-
ing from the walls and ceilings, with rickety wooden shelves covered
with food — crackers, sardines, canned sausages, bread, pork and beans,
cupcakes — all the necessities for a day on the river. A soft drink cooler
sat in one corner.

"Take a seat," Lettner said, waving to a corner near the cash register.
Adam sat in a shaky wooden chair as Lettner fished through an ice chest
and found a bottle of beer. "Sure you don't want one?"

"Maybe later." It was almost five o'clock.

He twisted the top, drained at least a third of the bottle with the first
gulp, smacked his lips, then sat in a beaten leather captain's chair which
had no doubt been removed from a customized van. "Are they finally
gonna get old Sam?" he asked.

"They're trying aw^fully hard."

"What're the odds?"

"Not good. We have the usual assortment of last minute appeals, but
the clock's ticking."

"Sam's not a bad guy," Lettner said with a trace of remorse, then
washed it away with another long drink. The floor creaked quietly as the
dock shifted with the river.

"How long were you in Mississippi?" Adam asked.

"Five years. Hoover called me after the three civil rights workers
disappeared. Nineteen sixty-four. We set up a special unit and went to
work. After Kramer, the Klan sort of ran out of gas."

"And you were in charge of what?"

"Mr. Hoover was very specific. He told me to infiltrate the Klan at aU
costs. He wanted it busted up. To be truthful, we were slow getting
started in Mississippi. Bunch of reasons for it. Hoover hated the Ken-
nedys and they were pushing him hard, so he dragged his feet. But when
those three boys disappeared, we got off our asses. Nineteen sixty-four
was a helluva year in Mississippi."

"I was born that year."

"Yeah, paper said you were born in Clanton."

THECHAMBER 189

Adam nodded. "I didn't know it for a long time. My parents told me I
was born in Memphis."

The door jingled and Ron entered the shop. He looked at them, then
studied the crackers and sardines. They watched him and waited. He
glanced at Adam as if to say, "Keep talking. I'm not listening."

"What do you want?" Lettner snapped at him.

He grabbed a can of Vienna sausage with his dirty hand and showed it
to them. Lettner nodded and waved at the door. Ron ambled toward it,
checking the cupcakes and potato chips as he went.

"He's nosy as hell," Lettner said after he was gone. "I talked to
Garner Goodman a few times. It was years ago. Now, that's a weird
bird."

"He's my boss. He gave me your name, said you'd talk to me."

"Talk about what?" Lettner asked, then took another drink.

"The Kramer case."

"The Kramer case is closed. The only thing left is Sam and his date
with the gas chamber."

"Do you want him executed?"

Voices followed footsteps, then the door opened again. A man and a
boy entered and Lettner got to his feet. They needed food and supplies,
and for ten minutes they shopped and talked and decided where the fish
were biting. Lettner was careful to place his beer under the counter
while his customers were present.

Adam removed a soft drink from the cooler and left the shop. He
walked along the edge of the wooden dock next to the river, and
stopped by the gas pump. Two teenagers in a boat were casting near the
bridge, and it struck Adam that he'd never been fishing in his life. His
father had not been a man of hobbies and leisure. Nor had he been able
to keep a job. At the moment, Adam could not remember exactly what
his father had done with his time.

The customers left and the door slammed. Lettner lumbered to the
gas pump. "You like to trout fish?" he asked, admiring the river.

"No. Never been."

"Let's go for a ride. I need to check out a spot two miles downriver.
The fish are supposed to be thick."

Lettner was carrying his ice chest which he dropped carefully into a
boat. He stepped down from the dock, and the boat rocked violently
from side to side as he grabbed the motor. "Come on," he yelled at
Adam, who was studying the thirty-inch gap between himself and the
boat. "And grab that rope," Lettner yelled again, pointing to a thin cord
hooked to a grapple.

Adam unhitched the rope and stepped nervously into the boat, which

190 JOHNGRISHAM

rocked just as his foot touched it. He slipped and landed on his head and
came w^ithin inches of taking a swdm. Lettner howled with laughter as he
puUed the starter rope. Ron, of course, had watched this and was grin-
ning stupidly on the dock. Adam was embarrassed but laughed as if it
was aU very funny. Lettner gunned the engine, the front of the boat
jerked upward, and they were off.

Adam clutched the handles on both sides as they sped through the
water and under the bridge. CaUco Rock was soon behind them. The
river turned and twisted its way through scenic hiUs and around rocky
bluffs. Lettner navigated with one hand and sipped a fresh beer with the
other. After a few minutes, Adam relaxed somewhat and managed to
puU a beer from the cooler without losing his balance. The bottle was ice
cold. He held it with his right hand and clutched the boat with his left.
Lettner was humming or singing something behind him. The high-
pitched roar of the motor prevented conversation.

They passed a small trout dock where a group of clean-cut city sUckers
were counting fish and drinking beer, and they passed a fiotiUa of rubber
rafts fiUed with mangy teenagers smoking something and absorbing the
sun. They waved at other fishermen who were hard at work.

The boat slowed finally and Lettner maneuvered it carefuUy through a
bend as if he could see the fish below and had to position himself
perfectly. He turned off the engine. "You gonna fish or drink beer?" he
asked, staring at the water.

"Drink beer."

"Figures." His bottle was suddenly of secondary importance as he
took the rod and cast to a spot toward the bank. Adam watched for a
second, and when there was no immediate result he reclined and hung
his feet over the water. The boat was not comfortable.

"How often do you fish?" he asked.

"Every day. It's part of my job, you know, part of my service to my
customers. I have to know where the fish are biting."

"Tough job."

"Somebody has to do it."

"What brought you to Calico Rock?"

"Had a heart attack in '75, so I had to retire from the Bureau. Had a
nice pension and all, but, hell, you get bored just sitting around. The
wife and I found this place and found the marina for sale. One mistake
led to another, and here I am. Hand me a beer."

He cast again as Adam dispensed the beer. He quickly counted four-
teen bottles remaining in the ice. The boat drifted with the river, and
Lettner grabbed a paddle. He fished with one hand, sculled the boat

THE CHAMBER 191

with the other, and somehow balanced a fresh beer between his knees.
The life of a fishing guide.

They slowed under some trees, and the sun was mercifully shielded for
a while. He made the casting look easy. He whipped the rod with a
smooth wrist action, and sent the lure anywhere he wanted. But the fish
weren't biting. He cast toward the middle of the river.

"Sam's not a bad guy." He'd already said this once.

"Do you think he should be executed?"

"That's not up to me, son. The people of the state want the death
penalty, so it's on the books. The people said Sam was guilty and then
said he should be executed, so who am I?"

"But you have an opinion."

"What good is it? My thoughts are completely worthless."

"Why do you say Sam's not a bad guy?"

"It's a long story."

"We have fourteen beers left."

Lettner laughed and the vast smile returned. He gulped from the
bottle and looked down the river, away from his line. "Sam was of no
concern to us, you understand. He was not active in the really nasty
stuff, at least not at first. When those civil rights workers disappeared, we
went in with a fury. We spread money all over the place, and before long
we had all sorts of Klan informants. These people were basically just
ignorant rednecks who'd never had a dime, and we preyed on their
craving for money. We'd have never found those three boys had we not
dropped some cash. About thirty thousand, as I remember it, though I
didn't deal directly with the informant. Hell, son, they were buried in a
levee. We found them, and it made us look good, you understand.
Finally, we'd accompUshed something. Made a bunch of arrests, but the
convictions were difficult. The violence continued. They bombed black
churches and black homes so damned often we couldn't keep up. It was
like a war down there. It got worse, and Mr. Hoover got madder, and
we spread around more money.

"Listen, son, I'm not going to tell you anything useful, you under-
stand?"

"Why not?"

"Some things I can talk about, some I can't."

"Sam wasn't alone when he bombed the Kramer office, was he?"

Lettner smiled again and studied his line. The rod was sitting in his
lap. "Anyway, by late '65 and early '66, we had a helluva network of
informants. It really wasn't that difficult. We'd learn that some guy was
in the Klan, and so we'd trail him. We'd follow him home at night,
flashing our lights behind him, parking in front of his house. It'd usually

192 JOHN GRISHAM

scare him to death. Then we'd follow him to work, sometimes we'd go
talk to his boss, flash our badges around, act like we were about to shoot
somebody. We'd go talk to his parents, show them our badges, let them
see us in our dark suits, let them hear our Yankee accents, and these poor
country people would Hterally crack up right in front of us. If the guy
went to church, we'd follow him one Sunday, then the next day we'd go
talk to his preacher. We'd tell him that we had heard a terrible rumor
that Mr. Such and Such was an active member of the Klan, and did he
know anything about it. We acted like it was a crime to be a member of
the Klan. If the guy had teenage children, we'd follow them on dates, sit
behind them at the movies, catch them parking in the woods. It was
nothing but pure harassment, but it worked. Finally, we'd call the poor
guy or catch him alone somewhere, and offer him some money. We'd
promise to leave him alone, and it always worked. Usually, they were
nervous wrecks by this time, they couldn't wait to cooperate. I saw them
cry, son, if you can believe it. Actually cry when they finally came to the
altar and confessed their sins." Lettner laughed in the direction of his
line, which was quite inactive.

Adam sipped his beer. Perhaps if they drank it all it would eventually
loosen his tongue.

"Had this guy one time, I'll never forget him. We caught him in bed
with his black mistress, which was not unusual. I mean, these guys would
go out burning crosses and shooting into black homes, then sneak
around Hke crazy to meet their black girlfriends. Never could understand
why the black women put up with it. Anyway, he had a little hunting
lodge deep in the woods, and he used it for a love nest. He met her there
one afternoon for a quickie, and when he was finished and ready to go,
he opened the front door and we took his picture. Got her picture too,
and then we talked to him. He was a deacon or an elder in some country
church, a real pillar, you know, and we talked to him Uke he was a dog.
We ran her off and sat him down inside the Httle lodge there, and before
long he was crying. As it turned out, he was one of our best witnesses.
But he later went to jail."

"Why?"

"Well, it seems that while he was sneaking around with his girlfriend,
his wife was doing the same thing with a black kid who worked on their
farm. Lady got pregnant, baby was half and half, so our informant goes
to the hospital and kills mother and child. He spent fifteen years at
Parchman."

"Good."

"We didn't get a lot of convictions back in those days, but harassed
them to a point where they were afraid to do much. The violence had

THECHAMBER 193

slowed considerably until Dogan decided to go after the Jews. That
caught us off guard, I have to admit. We had no clue."

"Why not?"

"Because he got smart. He learned the hard way that his own people
would talk to us, so he decided to operate with a small, quiet unit."

"Unit? As in more than one person?"

"Something hke that."

"As in Sam and who else?"

Lettner snorted and chuckled at once, and decided the fish had moved
elsewhere. He placed his rod and reel in the boat, and yanked on the
starter cord. They were off, racing once again downstream. Adam left his
feet over the side, and his leather moccasins and bare ankles were soon
wet. He sipped the beer. The sun was finally beginning to disappear
behind the hills, and he enjoyed the beauty of the river.

The next stop was a stretch of stiU water below a bluff with a rope
hanging from it. Lettner cast and reeled, all to no effect, and assumed the
role of interrogator. He asked a hundred questions about Adam and his
family — the flight westward, the new identities, the suicide. He ex-
plained that while Sam was in jail they checked out his family and knew
he had a son who had just left town, but since Eddie appeared to be
harmless they did not pursue the investigation. Instead, they spent their
time watching Sam's brothers and cousins. He was intrigued by Adam's
youth, and how he was raised with virtually no knowledge of kinfolks.

Adam asked a few questions, but the answers were vague and immedi-
ately twisted into more questions about his past. Adam was sparring with
a man who'd spent twenty-five years asking questions.

The third and final hot spot was not far from Calico Rock, and they
fished until it was dark. After five beers, Adam mustered the courage to
wet a hook. Lettner was a patient instructor, and within minutes Adam
had caught an impressive trout. For a brief interlude, they forgot about
Sam and the Klan and other nightmares from the past, and they simply
fished. They drank and fished.

MRS. LETTNER'S FIRST NAME was Irene, and she welcomed her
husband and his unexpected guest with grace and nonchalance. Wyn had
explained, as Ron drove them home, that Irene was accustomed to drop-
ins. She certainly seemed to be unruffled as they staggered through the
front door and handed her a string of trout.

The Lettner home was a cottage on the river a mile north of town.
The rear porch was screened to protect it from insects, and not far below
it was a splendid view of the river. They sat in wicker rockers on the
porch, and opened another round of brew as Irene fried the fish.

194 JOHN GRISHAM

Putting food on the table was a new experience for Adam, and he ate
the fish he'd caught with great gusto. It always tastes better, Wyn assured
him as he chomped and drank, when you catch it yourself About half-
way through the meal, Wyn switched to Scotch. Adam declined. He
wanted a simple glass of water, but machismo drove him to continue
with the beer. He couldn't wimp out at this point. Lettner would cer-
tainly chastise him.

Irene sipped wine and told stories about Mississippi. She had been
threatened on several occasions, and their children refused to visit them.
They were both from Ohio, and their families worried constantly about
their safety. Those were the days, she said more than once with a certain
longing for excitement. She was extremely proud of her husband and his
performance during the war for civil rights.

She left them after dinner and disappeared somew^here in the cottage.
It was almost ten o'clock, and Adam was ready for sleep. Wyn rose to his
feet while holding onto a wooden beam, and excused himself for a visit
to the bathroom. He returned in due course with two fresh Scotches in
tail glasses. He handed one to Adam, and returned to his rocker.

They rocked and sipped in silence for a moment, then Lettner said,
"So you're convinced Sam had some help."

"Of course he had some help." Adam was very much aware that his
tongue was thick and his words were slow. Lettner's speech was remark-
ably articulate.

"And what makes you so certain?"

Adam lowered the heavy glass and vowed not to take another drink.
"The FBI searched Sam's house after the bombing, right?"

"Right."

"Sam was in jail in Greenville, and you guys got a warrant."

"I was there, son. We went in with a dozen agents and spent three
days."

"And found nothing."

"You could say that."

"No trace of dynamite. No trace of blasting caps, fuses, detonators.
No trace of any device or substance used in any of the bombings. Cor-
rect?"

"That's correct. So w^hat's your point?"

"Sam had no knowledge of explosives, nor did he have a history of
using them."

"No, I'd say he had quite a history of using them. Kramer was the
sixth bombing, as I recall. Those crazy bastards were bombing like hell,
son, and we couldn't stop them. You weren't there. I was in the middle
of it. We had harassed the Klan and infiltrated to a point where they

THE CHAMBER 195

were afraid to move, then all of a sudden another war erupted and
bombs were falling everywhere. We listened where we were supposed to
listen. We twisted familiar arms until they broke. And we were clueless.
Our informants were clueless. It was like another branch of the Klan had
suddenly invaded Mississippi without telling the old one."

"Did you know about Sam?"

"His name was in our records. As I recall, his father had been a
Klucker, and maybe a brother or two. So we had their names. But they
seemed harmless. They Hved in the northern part of the state, in an area
not known for serious Klan violence. They probably burned some
crosses, maybe shot up a few houses, but nothing compared to Dogan
and his gang. We had our hands fuD with murderers. We didn't have
time to investigate every possible Klucker in the state."

"Then how do you explain Sam's sudden shift to violence?"

"Can't explain it. He was no choirboy, okay? He had killed before."

"Are you sure?"

"You heard me. He shot and kiUed one of his black employees in the
early fifties. Never spent a day in jail for it. In fact, I'm not sure, but I
don't think he was ever arrested for it. There may have been another
kiUing, too. Another black victim."

"I'd rather not hear it."

"Ask him. See if the old bastard has guts enough to admit it to his
grandson." He took another sip. "He was a violent man, son, and he
certainly had the capability to plant bombs and kill people. Don't be
naive."

"I'm not naive. I'm just trying to save his life."

"Why? He killed two very innocent little boys. Two children. Do you
realize this?"

"He was convicted of the murders. But if the killings were wrong,
then it's wrong for the state to kill him."

"I don't buy that crap. The death penalty is too good for these people.
It's too clean and sterile. They know they're about to die, so they have
time to say their prayers and say good-bye. What about the victims?
How much time did they have to prepare?"

"So you want Sam executed?"

"Yeah. I want 'em all executed."

"I thought you said he wasn't a bad guy."

"I lied. Sam Cayhall is a cold-blooded killer. And he's guilty as hell.
How else can you explain the fact that the bombings stopped as soon as
he was in custody?"

"Maybe they were scared after Kramer?"

"They? Who the hell is they?"

196 JOHN GRISHAM

"Sam and his partner. And Dogan."

"Okay. I'll play along. Let's assume Sam had an accompHce."

"No. Let's assume Sam was the accomplice. Let's assume the other
guy was the explosives expert."

"Expert? These were very crude bombs, son. The first five were
nothing more than a few sticks wrapped together with a fuse. You Hght
the match, run like heU, and fifteen minutes later, Boom! The Kramer
bomb was nothing but a half-ass rig with an alarm clock wired to it.
They were lucky it didn't go off while they were playing with it."

"Do you think it was deHberately set to go off when it did?"

"The jury thought so. Dogan said they planned to kiU Marvin
Kramer."

"Then why was Sam hanging around? Why was he close enough to
the bomb to get hit with debris?"

"You'll have to ask Sam, which I'm sure you've already done. Does he
claim he had an accomplice?"

"No."

"Then that settles it. If your own client says no, what the heU are you
digging for?"

"Because I think my cHent is lying."

"Too bad for your client, then. If he wants to He and protect the
identity of someone, then why should you care?"

"Why would he lie to me?"

Lettner shook his head in frustration, then mumbled something and
took a drink. "How the heU am I supposed to know? I don't want to
know, okay? I honestly don't care if Sam's lying or if Sam's telling the
truth. But if he won't level with you, his lawyer and his own grandson,
then I say gas him."

Adam took a long drink and stared into the darkness. He actually felt
silly at times digging around trying to prove his ow^n client was lying to
him. He'd give this another shot, then talk about something else. "You
don't beheve the witnesses who saw Sam with another person?"

"No. They were pretty shaky, as I recaU. The guy at the truck stop
didn't come forward for a long time. The other guy had just left a
honky-tonk. They weren't credible."

"Do you believe Dogan?"

"The jury did."

"I didn't ask about the jury."

Lettner's breathing was finally getting heavy, and he appeared to be
fading. "Dogan was crazy, and Dogan was a genius. He said the bomb
was intended to kill, and I believe him. Keep in mind, Adam, they

THECHAMBER 197

almost wiped out an entire family in Vicksburg. I can't remember the
name — "

"Pinder. And you keep saying they did this and that."

"I'm just playing along, okay. We're assuming Sam had a buddy with
him. They planted a bomb at the Pinder house in the middle of the
night. An entire family could've been killed."

"Sam said he placed the bomb in the garage so no one would get
hurt."

"Sam told you this? Sam admitted he did it? Then why in the hell are
you asking me about an accomplice? Sounds like you need to listen to
your client. Son of a bitch is guilty, Adam. Listen to him."

Adam took another drink and his eyeHds grew heavier. He looked at
his watch, but couldn't see it. "Tell me about the tapes," he said, yawn-
ing.

"What tapes?" Lettner asked, yawning.

"The FBI tapes they played at Sam's trial. The ones with Dogan
talking to Wayne Graves about bombing Kramer."

"We had lots of tapes. And they had lots of targets. Kramer was just
one of many. Hell, we had a tape with two Kluckers talking about
bombing a synagogue while a wedding was in progress. They wanted to
bolt the doors and shoot some gas through the heating ducts so the
entire congregation would be wiped out. Sick bastards, man. It wasn't
Dogan, just a couple of his idiots talking trash, and so we dismissed it.
Wayne Graves was a Klucker who was also on our payroll, and he al-
lowed us to tap his phones. He called Dogan one night, said he was on a
pay phone, and they got to talking about hitting Kramer. They also
talked about other targets. It was very effective at Sam's trial. But the
tapes did not help us stop a single bombing. Nor did they help us
identify Sam."

"You had no idea Sam Cayhall was involved?"

"None whatsoever. If the fool had left Greenville when he should
have, he'd probably still be a free man."

"Did Kramer know he was a target?"

"We told him. But by then he was accustomed to threats. He kept a
guard at his house." His words were starting to slur a bit, and his chin
had dropped an inch or two.

Adam excused himself and cautiously made his way to the bathroom.
As he returned to the porch, he heard heavy snoring. Lettner had
slumped in his chair and collapsed with the drink in his hand. Adam
removed it, then left in search of a sofa.

TWENTY

THE LATE MORNING was warm but seemed downright fever-
ish in the front of the Army surplus jeep, which lacked air condi-
tioning and other essentials. Adam sweated and kept his hand on
the handle of the door which he hoped would open promptly in the
event Irene's breakfast came roaring up.

He had awakened on the floor beside a narrow sofa in a room which
he had mistaken for the den, but was in fact the washroom beside the
kitchen. And the sofa was a bench, Lettner had explained with much
laughter, that he used to sit on to take off his boots. Irene had eventually
found his body after searching the house, and Adam apologized pro-
fusely until they both asked him to stop. She had insisted on a heavy
breakfast. It was their one day of the week to eat pork, a regular tradition
around the Lettner cottage, and Adam had sat at the kitchen table gu7-
zling ice water while the bacon fried and Irene hummed and Wyn re
the paper. She also scrambled eggs and mixed bloody marys.

The vodka deadened some of the pain in his head, but it also did
nothing to calm his stomach. As they bounced toward Calico Rock on
the bumpy road, Adam was terrified that he would be sick.

Though Lettner had passed out first, he was remarkably healthy this
morning. No sign of a hangover. He'd eaten a plate fuU of grease and
biscuits, and he'd sipped only one bloody mary. He'd diligently read the
paper and commented about this and that, and Adam figured he was one
of those functional alcohoHcs who got plastered every night but shook it
off easily.

THECHAMBER 199

The village was in view. The road was suddenly smoother and Adam's
stomach stopped bouncing. "Sorry about last night," Lettner said.

"What?" Adam asked.

"About Sam. I was harsh. I know he's your grandfather and you're
very concerned. I lied about something. I really don't want Sam to be
executed. He's not a bad guy."

"I'U tell hmi."

"Yeah. I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

They entered the town and turned toward the bridge. "There's some-
thing else," Lettner said. "We always suspected Sam had a partner."

Adam smiled and looked through his window. They passed a small
church with elderly people standing under a shade tree in their pretty
dresses and neat suits.

"Why?" Adam asked.

"For the same reasons. Sam had no history with bombs. He had not
been involved in Klan violence. The two witnesses, especially the truck
driver in Cleveland, always bothered us. The trucker had no reason to
lie, and he seemed awfully certain of himself. Sam just didn't seem like
the type to start his own bombing campaign."

"So who's the man?"

"I honestly don't know." They rolled to a stop by the river, and
Adam opened his door just in case. Lettner leaned on the steering wheel,
and cocked his head toward Adam. "After the third or fourth bombing, I
think maybe it was the synagogue in Jackson, some big Jews in New
York and Washington met with LBJ, who in turn called in Mr. Hoover,
who in turn called me. I went to D.C., where I met with Mr. Hoover
and the President, and they pretty much crawled my ass. I returned to
Mississippi with renewed determination. We came down hard on our
informants. I mean, we hurt some people. We tried everything, but to
no avail. Our sources simply did not know who was doing the bombing.
Only Dogan knew, and it was obvious he wasn't telling anybody. But
after the fifth bomb, which I think was the newspaper office, we got a
break."

Lettner opened his door and walked to the front of the jeep. Adam
joined him there, and they watched the river ease along through Calico
Rock. "You wanna beer? I keep it cold in the bait shop."

"No, please. I'm half-sick now."

"Just kidding. Anyway, Dogan ran this huge used car lot, and one of
his employees was an illiterate old black man who washed the cars and
swept the floors. We had carefully approached the old man earlier, but he
was hostile. But out of the blue he tells one of our agents that he saw
Dogan and another man putting something in the trunk of a green

200 JOHN GRISHAM

Pontiac a couple of days earlier. He said he waited, then opened the
trunk and saw it was dynamite. The next day he heard that there was
another bombing. He knew the FBI was swarming all around Dogan, so
he figured it was w^orth mentioning to us. Dogan's helper was a Klucker
named Virgil, also an employee. So I went to see Virgil. I knocked on
his door at three o'clock one morning, just beat it like hell, you know,
like we always did in those days, and before long he turned on the light
and stepped on the porch. I had about eight agents with me, and we all
stuck our badges in Virgil's face. He was scared to death. I told him we
knew he had deHvered the dynamite to Jackson the night before, and
that he was looking at thirty years. You could hear his wife crying
through the screen door. Virgil was shaking and ready to cry himself. I
left him my card with instructions to call me before noon that very day,
and I threatened him if he told Dogan or anybody else. I told him we'd
be watching him around the clock.

"I doubt if Virgil went back to sleep. His eyes were red and puffy
when he found me a few hours later. We got to be friends. He said the
bombings were not the work of Dogan's usual gang. He didn't know
much, but he'd heard enough from Dogan to believe that the bomber
was a very young man from another state. This guy had dropped in from
nowhere, and was supposed to be very good with explosives. Dogan
picked the targets, planned the jobs, then called this guy, who sneaked
into town, carried out the bombings, then disappeared."

"Did you believe him?"

"For the most part, yes. It just made sense. It had to be someone new,
because by then we had riddled the Klan with informants. We knew
virtually every move they made."

"What happened to Virgil?"

"I spent some time with him, gave him some money, you know, the
usual routine. They always w^anted money. I became convinced he had
no idea who was planting the bombs. He would never admit that he'd
been involved, that he'd delivered the cars and dynamite, and we didn't
press him. We weren't after him."

"Was he involved with Kramer?"

"No. Dogan used someone else for that one. At times, Dogan seemed
to have a sixth sense about when to mix things up, to change routines."

"Virgil's suspect certainly doesn't sound Hke Sam Cayhall, does he?"
Adam asked.

"No."

"And you had no suspects?"

"No."

"Come on, Wyn. Surely you guys had some idea."

THE CHAMBER 201

"I swear. We did not. Shortly after we met Virgil, Kramer got
bombed and it was all over. If Sam had a buddy, then the buddy left
him."

"And the FBI heard nothing afterward?"

"Not a peep. We had Sam, who looked and smelled extremely
guilty."

"And, of course, you guys were anxious to close the case."

"Certainly. And the bombings stopped, remember. There were no
bombings after Sam got caught, don't forget that. We had our man. Mr.
Hoover was happy. The Jews were happy. The President was happy.
Then they couldn't convict him for fourteen years, but that was a differ-
ent story. Everyone was relieved when the bombings stopped."

"So why didn't Dogan squeal on the real bomber when he squealed
on Sam?"

They had eased down the bank to a point just inches above the water.
Adam's car sat nearby. Lettner cleared his throat and spat into the river.
"Would you testify against a terrorist who was not in custody?"

Adam thought for a second. Lettner smiled, flashed his big yellow
teeth, then chuckled as he started for the dock. "Let's have a beer."

"No. Please. I need to go."

Lettner stopped, and they shook hands and promised to meet again.
Adam invited him to Memphis, and Lettner invited him back to CaHco
Rock for more fishing and drinking. At the moment, his invitation was
not well received. Adam sent his regards to Irene, apologized again for
passing out in the washroom, and thanked him again for the chat.

He left the small town behind, driving gingerly around the curves and
hills, still careful not to upset his stomach.

LEE WAS STRUGGLING with a pasta dish when he entered her apart-
ment. The table was set with china and silver and fresh flowers. The
recipe was for baked manicotti, and things were not going well in the
kitchen. On more than one occasion in the past week she'd confessed to
being a lousy cook, and now she was proving it. Pots and pans were
scattered along the countertops. Her seldom used apron was covered
with tomato sauce. She laughed as they kissed each other on the cheeks
and said there was a frozen pizza if matters got worse.

"You look awful," she said, suddenly staring at his eyes.

"It was a rough night."

"You smell like alcohol."

"I had two bloody marys for breakfast. And I need another one now."

"The bar's closed." She picked up a knife and stepped to a pile of

202 JOHN GRISHAM

vegetables. A zucchini was the next victim. "What did you do up
there?"

"Got drunk with the FBI man. Slept on the floor next to his washer
and dryer."

"How nice." She came within a centimeter of drawing blood. She
jerked her hand away from the chopping block and examined a fmger.
"Have you seen the Memphis paper?"

"No. Should I?"

"Yes. It's over there." She nodded to a corner of the snack bar.

"Something bad?"

"Just read it."

Adam took the Sunday edition of the Memphis Press and sat in a chair
at the table. On the front page of the second section, he suddenly en-
countered his smihng face. It was a familiar photo, one taken not long
ago when he was a second-year law student at Michigan. The story
covered half the page, and his photo was joined by many others — Sam,
of course, Marvin Kramer, Josh and John Kramer, Ruth Kramer, David
McAllister, the Attorney General, Steve Roxburgh, Naifeh, Jeremiah
Dogan, and Mr. EUiot Kramer, father of Marvin.

Todd Marks had been busy. His narrative began with a succinct his-
tory of the case which took an entire column, then he moved quickly to
the present and recapped the same story he'd written two days earlier.
He found a bit more biographical data on Adam — college at Pepperdine,
law school at Michigan, law review editor, brief employment history
with Kravitz & Bane. Naifeh had very Httle to say, only that the execu-
tion would be carried out according to the law. McAllister, on the other
hand, was full of wisdom. He had Hved with the Kramer nightmare for
twenty-three years, he said gravely, thinking about it every day of his life
since it happened. It had been his honor and privilege to prosecute Sam
Cayhall and bring the killer to justice, and only the execution could
close this awful chapter of Mississippi's history. No, he said after much
thought, the idea of clemency was out of the question. Just wouldn't be
fair to the Httle Kramer boys. And on and on.

Steve Roxburgh had evidently enjoyed his interview too. He stood
ready to fight the final efforts by CayhaU and his lawyer to thwart the
execution. He and his staff were prepared to work eighteen hours a day
to carry out the wishes of the people. This matter had dragged on long
enough, he was quoted as saying more than once, and it was time for
justice. No, he was not worried about the last ditch legal challenges of
Mr. Cayhall. He had confidence in his skills as a lawyer, the people's
lawyer.

Sam CayhaU refused to comment, Marks explained, and Adam HaU

THE CHAMBER 203

couldn't be reached, as if Adam was eager to talk but simply couldn't be
found.

The comments from the family were both interesting and dishearten-
ing. Elliot Kramer, now seventy-seven and still working, was described
as spry and healthy in spite of heart trouble. He was also very bitter. He
blamed the Klan and Sam Cayhall not only for killing his two grandsons,
but also for Marvin's death. He'd been waiting twenty-three years for
Sam to be executed, and it couldn't come a minute too soon. He lashed
out at a judicial system that allows a convict to live for almost ten years
after the jury gives him a death penalty. He was not certain if he would
witness the execution, it would be up to his doctors, he said, but he
wanted to. He wanted to be there and look Cayhall in the eyes when
they strapped him in.

Ruth Kramer was a bit more moderate. Time had healed many of the
wounds, she said, and she was unsure how she would feel after the
execution. Nothing would bring back her sons. She had little to say to
Todd Marks.

Adam folded the paper and placed it beside the chair. He suddenly
had a knot in his fragile stomach, and it came from Steve Roxburgh and
David McAllister. As the lawyer expected to save Sam's life, it was fright-
ening to see his enemies so eager for the final battle. He was a rookie.
They were veterans. Roxburgh in particular had been through it before,
and he had an experienced staff which included a renowned specialist
known as Dr. Death, a skilled advocate with a passion for executions.
Adam had nothing but an exhausted file full of unsuccessful appeals, and
a prayer that a miracle would happen. At this moment he felt completely
vulnerable and hopeless.

Lee sat next to him with a cup of espresso. "You look worried," she
said, stroking his arm.

"My buddy at the trout dock was of no help."

"Sounds like old man Kramer is hell-bent."

Adam rubbed his temples and tried to ease the pain. "I need a pain-
killer."

"How about a Valium?"

"Wonderful."

"Are you real hungry?"

"No. My stomach is not doing well."

"Good. Dinner has been terminated. A slight problem with the rec-
ipe. It's frozen pizza or nothing."

"Nothing sounds good to me. Nothing but a Valium."

TWENTY-ONE

A DAM DROPPED HIS KEYS in the red bucket and watched it
AA ascend to a point twenty feet off the ground where it stopped
^ _A^and spun slowly on the end of the rope. He walked to the first
gate, which jerked before sliding open. He walked to the second gate,
and waited. Packer emerged from the front door a hundred feet away,
stretching and yawning as if he'd been napping on the Row.

The second gate closed behind him, and Packer waited nearby.
"Good day," he said. It was almost two, the hottest time of the day. A
morning radio forecaster had merrily predicted the first one-hundred-
degree day of the year.

"HeUo, Sergeant," Adam said as if they were old friends now. They
walked along the brick path to the small door with the weeds in front of
it. Packer unlocked it, and Adam stepped inside.

"I'll get Sam," Packer said, in no hurry, and disappeared.

The chairs on his side of the metal screen were scattered about. Two
were flipped over, as if the lawyers and visitors had been brawHng. Adam
puUed one close to the counter at the far end, as far as possible from the
air conditioner.

He removed a copy of the petition he'd filed at nine that morning. By
law, no claim or issue could be raised in federal court unless it had first
been presented and denied in state court. The petition attacking the gas
chamber had been filed in the Mississippi Supreme Court under the
state's postconviction relief statutes. It was a formality, in Adam's opin-
ion, and in the opinion of Garner Goodman. Goodman had worked on

THE CHAMBER 205

the claim throughout the weekend. In fact, he'd worked all day Saturday
while Adam was drinking beer and trout fishing with Wyn Lettner.

Sam arrived as usual, hands cuffed behind his back, no expression on
his face, red jumpsuit unbuttoned almost to the waist. The gray hair on
his pale chest was slick with perspiration. Like a well-trained animal, he
turned his back to Packer, who quickly removed the cuffs, then left
through the door. Sam immediately went for the cigarettes, and made
certain one was lit before he sat down and said, "Welcome back."

"I filed this at nine this morning," Adam said, sliding the petition
through the narrow slit in the screen. "I talked to the clerk with the
supreme court in Jackson. She seemed to think the court will rule on it
with due speed."

Sam took the papers, and looked at Adam. "You can bet on that.
They'll deny it with great pleasure."

"The state will be required to respond immediately, so we've got the
Attorney General scrambling right now."

"Great. We can watch the latest on the evening news. He's probably
invited the cameras into his office while they prepare their response."

Adam removed his jacket and loosened his tie. The room was humid
and he was already sweating. "Does the name Wyn Lettner ring a bell?"

Sam tossed the petition onto an empty chair and sucked hard on the
filter. He released a steady stream of exhaust at the ceiling. "Yes. Why?"

"Did you ever meet him?"

Sam thought about this for a moment, before speaking, and, as usual,
spoke with measured words. "Maybe. I'm not sure. I knew who he was
at the time. Why?"

"I found him over the weekend. He's retired now, and runs a trout
dock on the White River. We had a long talk."

"That's nice. And what exactly did you accomplish?"

"He says he still thinks you had someone working with you."

"Did he give you any names?"

"No. They never had a suspect, or so he says. But they had an infor-
mant, one of Dogan's people, who told Lettner that the other guy was
someone new, not one of the usual gang. They thought he was from
another state, and that he was very young. That's all Lettner knew."

"And you believe this?"

"I don't know what I believe."

"What difference does it make now?"

"I don't know. It could give me something to use as I try to save your
life. Nothing more than that. I'm desperate, I guess."

"And I'm not?"

"I'm grasping for straws, Sam. Grasping and fiUing in holes."

206 JOHN GRISHAM

"So my story has holes?"

"I think so. Lettner said he was always doubtful because they found no
trace of explosives when they searched your house. And you had no
history of using them. He said you didn't seem to be the type to initiate
your own bombing campaign."

"And you believe everything Lettner says?"

"Yeah. Because it makes sense."

"Let me ask you this. What if I told you there was someone else?
What if I gave you his name, address, phone number, blood type, and
urine analysis? What would you do with it?"

"Start screaming like hell. I'd file motions and appeals by the truck-
load. I'd get the media stirred up, and make a scapegoat out of you. I'd
try to sensationalize your innocence and hope someone noticed, some-
one like an appellate judge."

Sam nodded slowly as if this was quite ridiculous and exactly what
he'd expected. "It wouldn't work, Adam," he said carefully, as if lectur-
ing to a child. "I have three and a half weeks. You know the law. There's
no way to start screaming John Doe did it, when John Doe has never
been mentioned."

"I know. But I'd do it anyway."

"It won't work. Stop trying to find John Doe."

"Who is he?"

"He doesn't exist."

"Yes he does."

"Why are you so sure?"

"Because I want to believe you're innocent, Sam. It's very important
to me."

"I told you I'm innocent. I planted the bomb, but I had no intention
of killing anyone."

"But why'd you plant the bomb? Why'd you bomb the Pinder house,
and the synagogue, and the real estate office? Why were you bombing
innocent people?"

Sam just puffed and looked at the floor.

"Why do you hate, Sam? Why does it come so easy? Why were you
taught to hate blacks and Jews and Catholics and anyone sHghtly different
from you? Have you ever asked yourself why?"

"No. Don't plan to."

"So, it's just you, right. It's your character, your composition, same as
your height and blue eyes. It's something you were born with and can't
change. It was passed down in the genes from your father and grandfa-
ther, faithful Kluckers all, and it's something you'll proudly take to your
grave, right?"

THE CHAMBER 207

"It was a way of life. It was all I knew."

"Then what happened to my father? Why couldn't you contaminate
Eddie?"

Sam thumped the cigarette onto the floor and leaned forward on his
elbows. The wrinkles tightened in the corners of his eyes and across his
forehead. Adam's face was directly through the slit, but he did not look
at him. Instead, he stared down at the base of the screen. "So this is it.
Time for our Eddie talk." His voice was much softer and his words even
slower.

"Where did you go wrong with him?"

"This, of course, has not a damned thing to do with the little gas party
they're planning for me. Does it? Nothing to do with issues and appeals,
lawyers and judges, motions and stays. This is a waste of time."

"Don't be a coward, Sam. Tell me where you went wrong with Ed-
die. Did you teach him the word nigger? Did you teach him to hate little
black kids? Did you try to teach him how to burn crosses or build
bombs? Did you take him to his first lynching? What did you do with
him, Sam? Where did you go wrong?"

"Eddie didn't know I was in the Klan until he was in high school."

"Why not? Surely you weren't ashamed of it. It was a great source of
family pride, wasn't it?"

"It was not something we talked about."

"Why not? You were the fourth generation of Cayhall Klansmen,
with roots all the way back to the Civil War, or something like that. Isn't
that what you told me?"

"Yes."

"Then why didn't you sit little Eddie down and show him pictures
from the family album? Why didn't you tell him bedtime stories of the
heroic Cayhalls and how they rode around at night with masks on their
brave faces and burned Negro shacks? You know, war stories. Father to
son."

"I repeat, it was not something we talked about."

"Well, when he got older, did you try to recruit him?"

"No. He was different."

"You mean, he didn't hate?"

Sam jerked forward and coughed, the deep, scratchy hacking action of
a chain-smoker. His face reddened as he struggled for breath. The
coughing grew worse and he spat on the floor. He stood and leaned at
the waist with both hands on his hips, coughing and hacking while
shuffling around and trying to stop it.

Finally, a break. He stood straight and breathed rapidly. He swallowed
and spat again, then relaxed and inhaled slowly. The seizure was over,

208 JOHN GRISHAM

and his red face was suddenly pale again. He took his seat across from
Adam, and puffed mightily on the cigarette as if some other device or
habit was to blame for the coughing. He took his time, breathing deeply
and clearing his throat.

"Eddie was a tender child," he began hoarsely. "He got it from his
mother. He wasn't a sissy. In fact, he was just as tough as other little
boys." A long pause, another drag of nicotine. "Not far from our house
was a nigger family — "

"Could we just call them blacks, Sam? I've asked you this already."

"Forgive me. There was an African family on our place. The Lin-
colns. Joe Lincoln was his name, and he'd worked for us for many years.
Had a common-law wife and a dozen common-law children. One of
the boys was the same age as Eddie, and they were inseparable, best of
firiends. It was not that unusual in those days. You played with whoever
lived nearby. I even had little African buddies, believe it or not. When
Eddie started school, he got real upset because he rode one bus and his
African pal rode another. Kid's name was Quince. Quince Lincoln.
They couldn't wait to get home firom school and go play on the farm. I
remember Eddie was always disturbed because they couldn't go to
school together. And Quince couldn't spend the night in our house, and
Eddie couldn't spend the night with the Lincolns. He was always asking
me questions about why the Africans in Ford County were so poor, and
lived in run-down houses, and didn't have nice clothes, and had so many
children in each family. He really suffered over it, and that made him
different. As he got older, he grew even more sympathetic toward the
Africans. I tried to talk to him."

"Of course you did. You tried to straighten him out, didn't you?"

"I tried to explain things to him."

"Such as?"

"Such as the need to keep the races separate. There's nothing wrong
with separate but equal schools. Nothing wrong with laws prohibiting
miscegenation. Nothing wrong with keeping the Africans in their
place."

"Where's their place?"

"Under control. Let 'em run wild, and look at what's happened.
Crime, drugs, AIDS, illegitimate births, general breakdown in the moral
fabric of society."

"What about nuclear proHferation and killer bees?"

"You get my point."

"What about basic rights, radical concepts like the right to vote, the
right to use public rest rooms, the right to eat in restaurants and stay in

THE CHAMBER 209

hotels, the right not to be discriminated against in housing, employ-
ment, and education?"

"You sound like Eddie."

"Good."

"By the time he was finishing high school he was spouting off like
that, talking about how badly the Africans were being mistreated. He left
home when he was eighteen."

"Did you miss him?"

"Not at first, I guess. We were fighting a lot. He knew I was in the
Klan, and he hated the sight of me. At least, he said he did."

"So you thought more of the Klan than you did your own son?"

Sam stared at the floor. Adam scribbled on a legal pad. The air condi-
tioner rattled and faded, and for a moment seemed determined to finally
quit. "He was a sweet kid," Sam said quietly. "We used to fish a lot, that
was our big thing together. I had an old boat, and we'd spend hours on
the lake fishing for crappie and bream, sometimes bass. Then he grew up
and didn't like me. He was ashamed of me, and of course it hurt. He
expected me to change, and I expected him to see the light like all the
other white kids his age. It never happened. We drifted apart when he
was in high school, then it seems like the civil rights crap started, and
there was no hope after that."

"Did he participate in the movement?"

"No. He wasn't stupid. He might have been sympathetic, but he kept
his mouth shut. You just didn't go around talking that trash if you were
local. There were enough Northern Jews and radicals to keep things
stirred up. They didn't need any help."

"What did he do after he left home?"

"Joined the Army. It was an easy way out of town, away firom Missis-
sippi. He was gone for three years, and when he came back he brought a
wife. They lived in Clanton and we barely saw them. He talked to his
mother occasionally, but didn't have much to say to me. It was the early
sixties by then, and the African movement was getting cranked up.
There were a lot of Klan meetings, a lot of activity, most to the south of
us. Eddie kept his distance. He was very quiet, never had much to say
anyway."

"Then I was born."

"You were born around the time those three civil rights workers
disappeared. Eddie had the nerve to ask me if I was involved in it."

"Were you?"

"Hell no. I didn't know who did it for almost a year."

"They were Kluckers, weren't they?"

"They were Klansmen."

210 JOHN GRISHAM

"Were you happy when those boys "were murdered?"

"How the hell is that relevant to me and the gas chamber in 1990?"

"Did Eddie know it when you got involved with the bombing?"

"No one knew it in Ford County. We had not been too active. As I
said, most of it was to the south of us, around Meridian."

"And you couldn't wait to jump in the middle of it?"

"They needed help. The Fibbies had infiltrated so deep hardly anyone
could be trusted. The civil rights movement was snowballing fast. Some-
thing had to be done. I'm not ashamed of it."

Adam smiled and shook his head. "Eddie was ashamed, wasn't he?"

"Eddie didn't know anything about it until the Kramer bombing."

"Why did you involve him?"

"I didn't."

"Yes you did. You told your wife to get Eddie and drive to Cleveland
and pick up your car. He was an accessory after the fact."

"I was in jail, okay. I was scared. And no one ever knew. It was
harmless."

"Perhaps Eddie didn't think so."

"I don't know what Eddie thought, okay. By the time I got out of
jail, he had disappeared. Y'all were gone. I never saw him again until his
mother's funeral, and then he sHpped in and out without a word to
anyone." He rubbed the wrinkles on his forehead with his left hand,
then ran it through his oily hair. His face was sad, and as he glanced
through the sHt Adam saw a trace of moisture in the eyes. "The last time
I saw Eddie, he was getting in his car outside the church after the funeral
service. He was in a hurry. Something told me I'd never see him again.
He was there because his mother had died, and I knew that would be his
last visit home. There was no other reason for him to come back. I was
on the front steps of the church, Lee was with me, and we both watched
him drive away. There I was burying my wife, and at the same time
watching my son disappear for the last time."

"Did you try to find him?"

"No. Not really. Lee said she had a phone number, but I didn't feel
Hke begging. It was obvious he didn't want anything to do with me, so I
left him alone. I often wondered about you, and I remember telling your
grandmother how nice it would be to see you. But I wasn't about to
spend a lot of time trying to track y'aU down."

"It would' ve been hard to find us."

"That's what I heard. Lee talked to Eddie occasionally, and she would
report to me. It sounded Hke you guys were moving aU over CaHfornia."

"I went to six schools in twelve years."

"But why? What was he doing?"

THE CHAMBER 211

"A number of things. He'd lose his job, and we'd move because we
couldn't pay the rent. Then Mother would find a job, and we'd move
somewhere else. Then Dad would get mad at my school for some vague
reason, and he'd yank me out."

"What kind of work did he do?"

"Once he worked for the post office, until he got fired. He threatened
to sue them, and for a long time he maintained this massive little war
against the postal system. He couldn't find a lawyer to take his case, so he
abused them with paperwork. He always had a small desk with an old
typewriter and boxes filled with his papers, and they were his most
valuable possessions. Every time we moved, he took great care with his
office, as he called it. He didn't care about anything else, there wasn't
much, but he protected his office with his life. 1 can remember many
nights lying in bed trying to sleep and listening to that damned type-
writer pecking away at all hours. He hated the federal government."

"That's my boy."

"But for different reasons, I think. The IRS came after him one year,
which I always found odd because he didn't earn enough to pay three
dollars in taxes. So he declared war on the Infernal Revenue, as he called
it, and that raged for years. The State of California revoked his driver's
license one year when he didn't renew, and this violated all sorts of civil
and human rights. Mother had to drive him for two years until he
surrendered to the bureaucracy. He was always writing letters to the
governor, the President, U.S. senators, congressmen, anyone with an
office and staff. He would just raise hell about this and that, and when
they wrote him back he'd declare a small victory. He saved every letter.
He got in a fight one time with a next-door neighbor, something to do
with a strange dog peeing on our porch, and they were yelling at each
other across the hedgerow. The madder they got, the more powerful
their friends became, and both were just minutes away fi-om making
phone calls to all sorts of hotshots who would instantly inflict punish-
ment on the other. Dad ran in the house, and within seconds returned
to the argument with thirteen letters from the governor of the State of
California. He counted them loudly and waved them under the neigh-
bor's nose, and the poor guy was crushed. End of argument. End of dog
pissing on our porch. Of course, every one of the letters had asked him,
in a nice way, to get lost."

Though they didn't realize it, they were both smiling by the end of
this brief story.

"If he couldn't keep a job, how did y'all survive?" Sam asked, staring
through the opening.

"I don't know. Mother always worked. She was very resourceful, and

212 JOHN GRISHAM

she sometimes kept two jobs. Cashier in a grocery store. Clerk in a
pharmacy. She could do anything, and I remember a couple of pretty
good jobs as a secretary. At some point, Dad got a license to sell life
insurance, and that became a permanent part-time job. I guess he was
good at it, because things improved as I got older. He could work his
own hours and reported to no one. This suited him, although he said he
hated insurance companies. He sued one for canceHng a poHcy or some-
thing, I reaUy didn't understand it, and he lost the case. Of course, he
blamed it all on his lawyer, who made the mistake of sending Eddie a
long letter full of strong statements. Dad typed for three days, and when
his masterpiece was finished he proudly showed it to Mother. Twenty-
one pages of mistakes and lies by the lawyer. She just shook her head. He
fought with that poor lawyer for years."

"What kind of father was he?"

"I don't know. That's a hard question, Sam."

"Why?"

"Because of the way he died. I was mad at him for a long time after
his death, and I didn't understand how he could decide that he should
leave us, that we didn't need him anymore, that it w^as time for him to
check out. And after I learned the truth, I was mad at him for lying to
me aU those years, for changing my name and rurming away. It was
terribly confusing for a young kid. Still is."

"Are you still angry?"

"Not really. I tend to remember the good things about Eddie. He was
the only father I've had, so I don't know how to rate him. He didn't
smoke, drink, gamble, do drugs, chase women, beat his kids, or any of
that. He had trouble keeping a job, but we never went without food or
shelter. He and Mother were constantly talking about divorce, but it
didn't work out. She moved out several times, and then he would move
out. It was disruptive, but Carmen and I became accustomed to it. He
had his dark days, or bad times, as they were known, when he would
withdraw to his room and lock the door and puU the shades. Mother
would gather us around her and explain that he was not feeHng well, and
that we should be very quiet. No television or radios. She was very
supportive when he withdrew. He would stay in his room for days, then
suddenly emerge as if nothing happened. We learned to Hve with Eddie's
bad times. He looked and dressed normal. He was almost always there if
we needed him. We played baseball in the backyard and rode rides at the
carnival. He took us to Disneyland a couple of times. I guess he was a
good man, a good father who just had this dark, strange side that flared
up occasionally."

"But you "weren't close."

THE CHAMBER 213

"No, we weren't close. He helped me with my homework and sci-
ence projects, and he insisted on perfect report cards. We talked about
the solar system and the environment, but never about girls and sex and
cars. Never about family and ancestors. There was no intimacy. He was
not a warm person. There were times when 1 needed him and he was
locked up in his room."

Sam rubbed the corners of his eyes, then he leaned forward again on
his elbows with his face close to the screen and looked directly at Adam.
"What about his death?" he asked.

"What about it?"

"How'd it happen?"

Adam waited for a long time before answering. He could tell this
story several ways. He could be cruel and hateful and brutally honest,
and in doing so destroy the old man. There was a mighty temptation to
do this. It needed to be done, he'd told himself many times before. Sam
needed to suffer; he needed to be slapped in the face with the guilt of
Eddie's suicide. Adam wanted to really hurt the old bastard and make
him cry.

But at the same time he wanted to tell the story quickly, glossing over
the painful parts and then moving on to something else. The poor old
man sitting captive on the other side of the screen was suffering enough.
The government was planning to kill him in less than four weeks. Adam
suspected he knew more about Eddie's death than he let on.

"He was going through a bad time," Adam said, gazing at the screen
but avoiding Sam. "He'd been in his room for three weeks, which was
longer than usual. Mother kept telling us that he was getting better, just a
few more days and he'd come out. We beheved her, because he always
seemed to bounce out of it. He picked a day when she was at work and
Carmen was at a friend's house, a day when he knew I'd be the first one
home. I found him lying on the floor of my bedroom, still holding the
gun, a thirty-eight. One shot to the right temple. There was a neat circle
of blood around his head. I sat on the edge of my bed."

"How old were you?"

"Almost seventeen. A junior in high school. Straight A's. I realized
he'd carefully arranged a half dozen towels on the floor then placed
himself in the middle of them. I checked the pulse in his wrist, and he
was already stiff. Coroner said he'd been dead three hours. There was a
note beside him, typed neatly on white paper. The note was addressed
Dear Adam. Said he loved me, that he was sorry, that he wanted me to
take care of the girls, and that maybe one day I would understand. Then
he directed my attention to a plastic garbage bag, also on the floor, and
said I should place the dirty towels in the garbage bag, wipe up the mess.

214 JOHN GRISHAM

then call the poHce. Don't touch the gun, he said. And hurry, before the
girls get home." Adam cleared his throat and looked at the floor.

"And so I did exactly what he said, and I waited for the pohce. We
were alone for fifteen minutes, just the two of us. He was lying on the
floor, and I was lying on my bed looking down at him. I started crying
and crying, asking him w^hy and how and what happened and a hundred
other questions. There vv^as my dad, the only dad I would ever have,
lying there in his faded jeans and dirty socks and favorite UCLA sweat-
shirt. From the neck down he could' ve been napping, but he had a hole
in his head and the blood had dried in his hair. I hated him for dying,
and I felt so sorry for him because he was dead. I remember asking him
why he hadn't talked to me before this. I asked him a lot of questions. I
heard voices, and suddenly the room was filled with cops. They took me
to the den and put a blanket around me. And that was the end of my
father."

Sam was still on his elbows, but one hand was now over his eyes.
There were just a couple more things Adam wanted to say.

"After the funeral, Lee stayed with us for a while. She told me about
you and about the Cayhalls. She filled in a lot of gaps about my father. I
became fascinated with you and the Kramer bombing, and I began read-
ing old magazine articles and newspaper stories. It took about a year for
me to figure out why Eddie killed himself when he did. He'd been
hiding in his room during your trial, and he killed himself when it was
over."

Sam removed his hand and glared at Adam with wet eyes. "So you
blame me for his death, right, Adam? That's what you really want to say,
isn't it?"

"No. I don't blame you entirely."

"Then how much? Eighty percent? Ninety percent? You've had time
to do the numbers. How much of it's my fault?"

"I don't know, Sam. Why don't you tell me?"

Sam wiped his eyes and raised his voice. "Oh what the hell! I'll claim
a hundred percent. I'll take full responsibility for his death, okay? Is that
what you want?"

"Take whatever you want."

"Don't patronize me! Just add my son's name to my Hst, is that what
you want? The Kramer twins, their father, then Eddie. That's four I've
killed, right? Anyone else you want to tack on here at the end? Do it
quick, old boy, because the clock is ticking."

"How many more are out there?"

"Dead bodies?"

"Yes. Dead bodies. I've heard the rumors."

THECHAMBER 215

"And of course you believe them, don't you? You seem eager to
believe everything bad about me."

"I didn't say I believed them."

Sam jumped to his feet and walked to the end of the room. "I'm tired
of this conversation!" he yelled from thirty feet away. "And I'm tired of
you! I almost wish 1 had those damned Jew lawyers harassing me again."

"We can accommodate you," Adam shot back.

Sam walked slowly back to his chair. "Here I am worried about my
ass, twenty-three days away from the chamber, and all you want to do is
talk about dead people. Just keep chirping away, old boy, and real soon
you can start talking about me. I want some action."

"I filed a petition this morning."

"Fine! Then leave, dammit. Just get the hell out and stop tormenting

I"
me!

TWENTY-TWO

THE DOOR on Adam's side opened, and Packer entered with
two gentlemen behind him. They were obviously lawyers — dark
suits, frowns, thick bulging briefcases. Packer pointed to some
chairs under the air conditioner, and they sat down. He looked at Adam,
and paid particular attention to Sam, who was still standing on the other
side. "Everything okay?" he asked Adam.

Adam nodded and Sam eased into his chair. Packer left and the tw^o
new lawyers efficiently went about their business of pulling heavy docu-
ments jQrom fat files. Within a minute, both jackets were ojSf.

Five minutes passed without a word from Sam. Adam caught a few
ghmpses from the lawyers on the other end. They were in the same
room with the most famous inmate on the Row, the next one to be
gassed, and they couldn't help but steal curious peeks at Sam Cayhall and
his lawyer.

Then the door opened behind Sam, and two guards entered with a
wiry Httle black man who was shackled and manacled and cuffed as if he
might erupt any moment and kill dozens with his bare hands. They led
him to a seat across firom his lawyers, and went about the business of
Hberating most of his Hmbs. The hands remained cuffed behind his back.
One of the guards left the room, but the other took a position halfway
between Sam and the black inmate.

Sam glanced down the counter at his comrade, a nervous type who
evidently was not happy with his lawyers. His lawyers did not appear to
be thrilled either. Adam watched them from his side of the screen, and
within minutes their heads were close together and they were talking in

THE CHAMBER 217

unison through the sUt while their client sat niilitantly on his hands.
Their low voices were audible, but their words were indecipherable.

Sam eased forward again, on his elbows, and motioned for Adam to
do likewise. Their faces met ten inches apart with the opening between
them.

"That's Stockholm Turner," Sam said, almost in a whisper.

"Stockholm?"

"Yeah, but he goes by Stock. These rural Africans love unusual names.
He says he has a brother named Denmark and one named Germany.
Probably does."

"What'd he do?" Adam asked, suddenly curious.

"Robbed a whiskey store, I think. Shot the owner. About two years
ago he got a death warrant, and it went down to the wire. He came
within two hours of the chamber."

"What happened?"

"His lawyers got a stay, and they've been fighting ever since. You can
never tell, but he'U probably be the next after me."

They both looked toward the end of the room where the conference
was raging in full force. Stock was off his hands and sitting on the edge
of his chair and raising hell with his lawyers.

Sam grinned, then chuckled, then leaned even closer to the screen.
"Stock's family is dirt poor, and they have little to do with him. It's not
unusual, really, especially with the Africans. He seldom gets mail or
visitors. He was born fifty miles from here, but the free world has forgot-
ten about him. As his appeals were losing steam. Stock started worrying
about life and death and things in general. Around here, if no one claims
your body, then the state buries you like a pauper in some cheap grave.
Stock got concerned about what would happen to his body, and he
started asking all kinds of questions. Packer and some of the guards
picked up on it, and they convinced Stock that his body would be sent
to a crematorium where it would be burned. The ashes would be
dropped from the air and spread over Parchman. They told him that
since he'd be full of gas anyway, when they stuck a match to him he'd go
off like a bomb. Stock was devastated. He had trouble sleeping and lost
weight. Then he started writing letters to his family and friends begging
them for a few dollars so he could have a Christian burial, as he called it.
The money trickled in, and he wrote more letters. He wrote to ministers
and civil rights groups. Even his lawyers sent money.

"When his stay was lifted. Stock had close to four hundred dollars,
and he was ready to die. Or so he thought."

Sam's eyes were dancing and his voice was light. He told the story

218 JOHN GRISHAM

slowly, in a low voice, and savored the details. Adam was amused more
by the telling than by the narrative.

"They have a loose rule here that allows almost unlimited visitation
for seventy-two hours prior to the execution. As long as there's no
security risk, they'll allow the condemned man to do damned near any-
thing. There's a Httle office up front with a desk and phone, and that
becomes the visiting room. It's usually filled with all sorts of people —
grandmothers, nieces, nephews, cousins, aunties — especially with these
Africans. Hell, they run 'em in here by the busload. Kinfolks who
haven't spent five minutes thinking about the inmate suddenly show up
to share his last moments. It almost becomes a social event.

"They also have this rule, it's unwritten I'm sure, that allows one final
conjugal visit with the wife. If there's no wife, then the warden in his
boundless mercy allows a brief appointment with a girlfriend. One last
Uttle quickie before lover boy checks out." Sam glanced along the
counter at Stock, then leaned even closer.

"Well, ole Stock here is one of the more popular residents of the
Row, and he somehow convinced the warden that he had both a wife
and a girlfriend, and that these ladies would agree to spend a few mo-
ments with him before he died. At the same time! All three of them,
together! The warden allegedly knew something fishy was going on, but
everyone likes Stock, and, well, they were about to kill him anyway, so
what's the harm. So Stock here was sitting in the little room with his
mother and sisters and cousins and nieces, a whole passel of Africans,
most of whom hadn't uttered his name in ten years, and he was eating
his last meal of steak and potatoes while everybody else was crying and
grieving and praying. With about four hours to go, they emptied the
room and sent the family to the chapel. Stock waited for a few minutes
while another van brought his wife and his girlfriend here to the Row.
They arrived with guards, and were taken to the little office up front
where Stock was waiting, all wild-eyed and ready. Poor guy'd been on
the Row for twelve years.

"Well, they brought in a little cot for this liaison, and Stock and his
gals got it on. The guards said later that Stock had some fine-looking
women, and the guards also said they commented at the time on how
young they looked. Stock was just about to have a go with either his
wife or his girlfriend, it didn't really matter, when the phone rang. It was
his lawyer. And his lawyer was crying and out of breath as he yelled out
the great news that the Fifth Circuit had issued a stay.

"Stock hung up on him. He had more important matters at hand. A
few minutes passed, then the phone rang again. Stock grabbed it. It was
his lawyer again, and this time he was much more composed as he

THE CHAMBER 219

explained to Stock the legal maneuvering that had saved his life, for the
moment. Stock offered his appreciation, then asked his lawyer to keep it
quiet for another hour."

Adam again glanced to his right, and wondered which of the two
lawyers had called Stock while he was exercising his constitutional right
of the last conjugal visit.

"Well, by this time, the Attorney General's office had talked to the
warden, and the execution had been caDed off, or aborted as they like to
say. Made no difference to Stock. He was proceeding as if he would
never see another woman. The door to the room cannot be locked from
the inside, for obvious reasons, so Naifeh, after waiting patiently, gently
knocked on the door and asked Stock to come on out. Time to go back
to your ceU, Stock, he said. Stock said he needed just another five
minutes. No, said Naifeh. Please, Stock begged, and suddenly there were
noises again. So the warden grinned at the guards who grinned at the
warden, and for five minutes they studied the floor while the cot rattled
and bounced around the little room.

"Stock finally opened the door and strutted out like the heavyweight
champ of the world. The guards said he was happier about his perfor-
mance than he was about his stay. They quickly got rid of the women,
who as it turned out, were not really his wife and girlfriend after all."

"Who were they?"

"A couple of prostitutes."

"Prostitutes!" Adam said a bit too loud, and one of the lawyers stared
at him.

Sam leaned so close his nose was almost in the sHt. "Yeah, local
whores. His brother somehow arranged it for him. Remember the fu-
neral money he worked so hard to raise."

"You're kidding."

"That's it. Four hundred bucks spent on whores, which at first seems
a bit stiff, especiaUy for local African whores, but it seems they were
scared to death about coming to death row, which I guess makes sense.
They took aU Stock's money. He told me later he didn't give a damn
how they buried him. Said it was worth every dime. Naifeh got embar-
rassed, and he threatened to prohibit the conjugal visits. But Stock's
lawyer, that little dark-haired one over there, filed a lawsuit and got a
ruling that ensures one last quickie. I think Stock's almost looking for-
ward to his next one."

Sam leaned back in his chair and the smile slowly left his face. "Per-
sonally, I haven't given much thought to my conjugal visit. It's intended
for husband and wife relations only, you know, that's what the term

220 JOHN GRISHAM

means. But the warden'll probably bend the rules for me. What do you
think?"

"I really haven't thought about it."

"I'm just kidding, you know. I'm an old man. I'd settle for a back rub
and a stiflf drink."

"What about your last meal?" Adam asked, stiU very quietly.

"That's not funny."

"I thought we were kidding."

"Probably something gross like boiled pork and rubber peas. Same
crap they've been feeding me for almost ten years. Maybe an extra piece
of toast. I'd hate to give the cook the opportunity to prepare a meal fit
for free world humans."

"Sounds dehcious."

"Oh, I'll share it with you. I've often wondered w^hy they feed you
before they kill you. They also bring the doctor in and give you a
preexecution physical. Can you beHeve it? Gotta make sure you're fit to
die. And they have a shrink on staff here who examines you before the
execution, and he must report to the warden in writing that you're
mentally sound enough to gas. And they have a minister on the payroU
who'll pray and meditate with you and make sure your soul is headed in
the right direction. All paid for by the taxpayers of the State of Missis-
sippi and administered by these loving people around here. Don't forget
the conjugal visit. You can die with your lust satisfied. They think of
everything. They're very considerate. ReaUy concerned about your ap-
petite and health and spiritual well-being. Right at the very last, they put
a catheter in your penis and a plug up your ass so you won't make a
mess. This is for their benefit, not yours. They don't wanna have to
clean you afterward. So, they feed you real good, anything you want,
then they plug you up. Sick, isn't it? Sick, sick, sick, sick."

"Let's talk about something else."

Sam finished the last cigarette and thumped it on the floor in fi:ont of
the guard. "No. Let's stop talking. I've had enough for one day."

"Fine."

"And no more about Eddie, okay? It's reaUy not fair to come in here
and hit me with stuff hke that."

"I'm sorry. No more about Eddie."

"Let's try to focus on me the next three weeks, okay? That's more
than enough to keep us busy."

"It's a deal, Sam."

ALONG HIGHWAY 82 firom the east, Greenville was growing in an
unsightly sprawl, with its strip shopping centers filled with video rental

THE CHAMBER 221

and dinky liquor stores, and its endless fast-food franchises and drive-up
motels with free cable and breakfast. The river blocked such progress to
the west, and since 82 was the main corridor it had evidently become
the developers' favorite territory.

In the past tw^enty-five years, Greenville had grown from a sleepy river
town of thirty-five thousand to a busy river city of sixty thousand. It was
prosperous and progressive. In 1990, Greenville was the fifth-largest city
in the state.

The streets leading into the central district were shaded and lined with
stately old homes. The center of the town was pretty and quaint, well
preserved and apparently unchanged, Adam thought, in stark contrast to
the thoughtless chaos along Highway 82. He parked on Washington
Street, at a few minutes after five, as downtown merchants and their
customers were busy preparing for the end of the day. He removed his
tie and left it with his jacket in the car because the temperature was still
in the nineties and showed no sign of relenting.

He walked three blocks, and found the park with the life-sized bronze
statue of two little boys in the center. They were the same size with the
same smile and the same eyes. One was running while the other one
skipped, and the sculptor had captured them perfectly. Josh and John
Kramer, forever five years old, frozen in time with copper and tin. A
brass plate below them said simply:

JOSH AND JOHN KRAMER

DIED HERE ON APRIL 21, 1967

(MARCH 2, 1962-APRIL 21. 1967)

The park was a perfect square, half a city block which had once held
Marvin's law office and an old building next to it. The land had been in
the Kramer family for years, and Marvin's father gave it to the city to be
used as a memorial. Sam had done a fine job of leveling the law office,
and the city had razed the building next to it. Some money had been
spent on Kramer Park, and a lot of thought had gone into it. It was
completely fenced with ornamental wrought iron and an entrance on
each side from the sidewalks. Perfect rows of oaks and maples followed
the fencing. Lines of manicured shrubs met at precise angles, then encir-
cled flower beds of begonias and geraniums. A small amphitheater sat in
one corner under the trees, and across the way a group of black children
sailed through the air on wooden swings.

It was small and colorful, a pleasant little garden amid the streets and
buildings. A teenaged couple argued on a bench as Adam walked by. A
bicycle gang of eight-year-olds roared around a fountain. An ancient

222 JOHN GRISHAM

policeman ambled by and actually tipped his hat to Adam as he said
heUo.

He sat on a bench and stared at Josh and John, less than thirty feet
away. "Never forget the victims," Lee had admonished. "They have the
right to want retribution. They've earned it."

He remembered aU the gruesome details from the trials — the FBI
expert who testified about the bomb and the speed at which it ripped
through the building; the medical examiner who delicately described the
little bodies and what exactly killed them; the firemen who tried to
rescue but were much too late and were left only to retrieve. There had
been photographs of the building and the boys, and the trial judges had
used great restraint in allowing just a few of these to go to the jury.
McAllister, typically, had wanted to show huge enlarged color pictures
of the mangled bodies, but they were excluded.

Adam was now sitting on ground which had once been the office of
Marvin Kramer, and he closed his eyes and tried to feel the ground
shake. He saw the footage from his video of smoldering debris and the
cloud of dust suspended over the scene. He heard the frantic voice of the
news reporter, the sirens shrieking in the background.

Those bronze boys were not much older than he was when his grand-
father killed them. They were five and he was almost three, and for some
reason he kept up with their ages. Today, he was twenty-six and they
would be twenty-eight.

The guilt hit hard and low in the stomach. It made him shudder and
sweat. The sun hid behind two large oaks to the west, and as it flickered
through the branches the boys' faces gleamed.

How could Sam have done this? Why was Sam CayhaU his grandfa-
ther and not someone else's? When did he decide to participate in the
Klan's holy war against Jews? What made him change from a harmless
cross-burner to a full-fledged terrorist?

Adam sat on the bench, stared at the statue, and hated his grandfather.
He felt guilty for being in Mississippi trying to help the old bastard.

He found a Holiday Inn and paid for a room. He called Lee and
reported in, then watched the evening news on the Jackson channels.
Evidently, it had been just another languid summer day in Mississippi
with little happening. Sam CayhaU and his latest efforts to stay alive were
the hot topics. Each station carried somber comments by the governor
and the Attorney General about the newest petition for reHef filed by the
defense this morning, and each man was just sick and tired of the endless
appeals. Each would fight vaHantly to pursue this matter until justice was
realized. One station began its own countdown — twenty-three days until
execution, the anchorperson ratded off, as if reciting the number of

THE CHAMBER 223

shopping days left until Christmas. The number 23 was plastered under
the same overworked photo of Sam CayhaU.

Adam ate dinner in a small downtown cafe. He sat alone in a booth,
picking at roast beef and peas, listening to harmless chatter around him.
No one mentioned Sam.

At dusk, he walked the sidewalks in front of the shops and stores, and
thought of Sam pacing along these same streets, on the same concrete,
waiting for the bomb to go off and wondering what in the world had
gone wrong. He stopped by a phone booth, maybe the same one Sam
had tried to use to call and warn Kramer.

The park was deserted and dark. Two gaslight street lamps stood by
the front entrance, providing the only light. Adam sat at the base of the
statue, under the boys, under the brass plate with their names and dates
of birth and death. On this very spot, it said, they died.

He sat there for a long time, oblivious to the darkness, pondering
imponderables, wasting time with fruitless considerations of what might
have been. The bomb had defmed his life, he knew that much. It had
taken him away from Mississippi and deposited him in another world
with a new name. It had transformed his parents into refugees, fleeing
their past and hiding from their present. It had killed his father, in all
likeHhood, though no one could predict what inight have happened to
Eddie Cayhall. The bomb had played a principal role in Adam's decision
to become a lawyer, a calling he'd never felt until he learned of Sam.
He'd dreamed of flying airplanes.

And now the bomb had led him back to Mississippi for an undertak-
ing laden with agony and little hope. The odds were heavy that the
bomb would claim its final victim in twenty-three days, and Adam won-
dered what would happen to him after that.

What else could the bomb have in store for him?

TWENTY-THREE

FOR THE MOST PART, death penalty appeals drag along for
years at a snail's pace. A very old snail. No one is in a hurry. The
issues are compHcated. The briefs, motions, petitions, etc., are
thick and burdensome. The court dockets are crowded with more press-
ing matters.

Occasionally, though, a ruling can come down with stunning speed.
Justice can become terribly efficient. Especially in the waning days,
when a date for an execution has been set and the courts are tired of
more motions, more appeals. Adam received his first dose of quick jus-
tice while he was wandering the streets of Greenville Monday afternoon.

The Mississippi Supreme Court took one look at his petition for
postconviction relief, and denied it around 5 p.m. Monday. Adam was
just arriving in Greenville and knew nothing about it. The denial was
certainly no surprise, but its speed certainly was. The court kept the
petition less than eight hours. In all fairness, the court had dealt with
Sam Cayhall off and on for over ten years.

In the final days of death cases, the courts watch each other closely.
Copies of filings and rulings are faxed along so that the higher courts
know what's coming. The denial by the Mississippi Supreme Court was
routinely faxed to the federal district court in Jackson, Adam's next
forum. It was sent to the Honorable F. Flynn Slattery, a young federal
judge who was new to the bench. He had not been involved with the
Cayhall appeals.

Judge Slattery's office attempted to locate Adam Hall between 5 and 6
P.M. Monday, but he was sitting in Kramer Park. Slattery called the

THE CHAMBER 225

Attorney General, Steve Roxburgh, and at eight-thirty a brief meeting
took place in the judge's office. The judge happened to be a workaholic,
and this was his first death case. He and his clerk studied the petition
until midnight.

If Adam had watched the late news Monday, he would have learned
that his petition had already been denied by the supreme court. He was,
however, sound asleep.

At six Tuesday morning, he casually picked up the Jackson paper and
learned that the supreme court had turned him down, that the matter
was now in federal court, assigned to Judge Slattery, and that both the
Attorney General and the governor were claiming another victory. Odd,
he thought, since he hadn't yet officially filed anything in federal court.
He jumped in his car and raced to Jackson, two hours away. At nine, he
entered the federal courthouse on Capitol Street in downtown, and met
briefly with Breck Jefferson, an unsmiling young man, fresh from law
school and holding the important position of Slattery's law clerk. Adam
was told to return at eleven for a meeting with the judge.

ALTHOUGH HE ARRIVED at Slattery's office at exactly eleven, it
was obvious a meeting of sorts had been in progress for some time. In
the center of Slattery's huge office was a mahogany conference table,
long and wide with eight black leather chairs on each side. Slattery's
throne was at one end, near his desk, and before him on the table were
stacks of papers, legal pads, and other effects. The side to his right was
crowded with young white men in navy suits, all bunched together
along the table, with another row of eager warriors seated close behind.
This side belonged to the state, with His Honor, the governor, Mr.
David McAllister, sitting closest to Slattery. His Honor, the Attorney
General, Steve Roxburgh, had been banished to the middle of the table
in an obvious losing battle over turf. Each distinguished public servant
had brought to the table his most trusted litigators and thinkers, and this
squadron of strategists had obviously been meeting with the judge and
plotting long before Adam arrived.

Breck, the clerk, swung the door open and greeted Adam pleasantly
enough, then asked him to step inside. The room was instantly silent as
Adam slowly approached the table. Slattery reluctantly rose from his
chair and introduced himself to Adam. The handshake was cold and
fleeting. "Have a seat," he said ominously, fluttering his left hand at the
eight leather chairs on the defense side of the table. Adam hesitated, then
picked one directly across from a face he recognized as belonging to
Roxburgh. He placed his briefcase on the table, and sat down. Four

226 JOHN GRISHAM

empty chairs were to his right, in the direction of Slattery, and three to
his left. He felt like a lonesome trespasser.

"I assume you know the governor and the Attorney General," Slat-
tery said, as if everyone had personally met these two.

"Neither," Adam said, shaking his head slightly.

"I'm David McAllister, Mr. Hall, nice to meet you," the governor
said quickly, ever the anxious glad-handing politician, with an incredibly
rapid flash of flawless teeth.

"A pleasure," Adam said, barely moving his lips.

"And I'm Steve Roxburgh," said the Attorney General.

Adam only nodded at him. He'd seen his face in the newspapers.

Roxburgh took the initiative. He began talking and pointing at peo-
ple. "These are attorneys from my criminal appeals division. Kevin
Laird, Bart Moody, Morris Henry, Hugh Simms, and Joseph Ely. These
guys handle all death penalty cases." They aU nodded obediently while
maintaining their suspicious frowns. Adam counted eleven people on the
other side of the table.

McAllister chose not to introduce his band of clones, all of whom
were suflering from either migraines or hemorrhoids. Their faces were
contorted from pain, or perhaps from quite serious deliberation about
legal matters at hand.

"Hope we haven't jumped the gun, Mr. HaU," Slattery said as he
slipped a pair of reading glasses on his nose. He was in his early forties,
one of the young Reagan appointees. "When do you expect to officially
file your petition here in federal court?"

"Today," Adam said nervously, still astounded by the speed of it all.
This was a positive development though, he'd decided while driving to
Jackson. If Sam got any relief, it would be in federal court, not state.

"When can the state respond?" the judge asked Roxburgh.

"Tomorrow morning. Assuming the petition here raises the same is-
sues as those raised in the supreme court."

"They're the same," Adam said to Roxburgh, then he turned to
Slattery. "I was told to be here at eleven o'clock. What time did the
meeting start?"

"The meeting started when I decided it would start, Mr. HaU," Slat-
tery said icily. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Yes. It's obvious this conference started some time ago, without

J?
me.

"What's wrong with that? This is my office, and I'U start meetings
whenever I want."

"Yeah, but it's my petition, and I was invited here to discuss it. Seems
as though I should' ve been here for the entire meeting."

THE CHAMBER 227

"You don't trust me, Mr. Hall?" Slattery was easing forward on his
elbows, thoroughly enjoying this.

"I don't trust anybody," Adam said, staring at His Honor.

"We're trying to accommodate you, Mr. Hall. Your client doesn't
have much time, and I'm only trying to move things along. I thought
you'd be pleased that we were able to arrange this meeting with such
speed."

"Thank you," Adam said, and looked at his legal pad. There was a
brief silence as the tension eased a bit.

Slattery held a sheet of paper. "Get the petition filed today. The state
will file its response tomorrow. I'll consider it over the weekend and
issue a ruling on Monday. In the event I decide to conduct a hearing, I
need to know from both sides how long it will take to prepare. How
about you, Mr. Hall? How long to get ready for a hearing?"

Sam had twenty-two days to live. Any hearing would have to be a
hurried, concise affair with quick witnesses and, he hoped, a swift ruling
by the court. Adding to the stress of the moment was the crucial fact that
Adam had no idea how long it would take to prepare for a hearing
because he'd never tried such a matter. He'd participated in a few minor
skirmishes in Chicago, but always with Emmitt Wycoff close by. He was
just a rookie, dammit! He wasn't even certain where the courtroom was
located.

And something told him that the eleven vultures examining him at
this precise second knew full well he didn't know what the hell he was
doing. "I can be ready in a week," he said with a steady poker face and
as much faith as he could muster.

"Very well," Slattery said, as if this was fine, a good answer, Adam,
good boy. A week was reasonable. Then Roxburgh whispered some-
thing to one of his warlocks, and the whole bunch thought it was funny.
Adam ignored them.

Slattery scribbled something with an ink pen, then studied it. He gave
it to Breck the clerk who treasured it and raced off to do something else
with it. His Honor looked along the wall of legal infantry to his right,
then he dropped his gaze upon young Adam. "Now, Mr. Hall, there's
something else I'd like to discuss. As you know, this execution is sched-
uled to take place in twenty-two days, and I would like to know if this
court can expect any additional filings on behalf of Mr. Cayhall. I know
this is an unusual request, but we're operating here in an unusual situa-
tion. Frankly, this is my first involvement with a death penalty case as
advanced as this one, and 1 think it's best if we all work together here."

In other words. Your Honor, you want to make damned sure there are
no stays. Adam thought for a second. It was an unusual request, and one

228 JOHN GRISHAM

that was quite unfair. But Sam had a constitutional right to file anything
at anytime, and Adam could not be bound by any promises made here.
He decided to be polite. "I really can't say, Your Honor. Not now.
Maybe next week."

"Surely you'll file the usual gangplank appeals," Roxburgh said, and
the smirking bastards around him all looked at Adam with wondrous
amazement.

"Frankly, Mr. Roxburgh, I'm not required to discuss my plans with
you. Or with the court, for that matter."

"Of course not," McAllister chimed in for some reason, probably just
his inabiHty to stay quiet for more than five minutes.

Adam had noticed the lawyer sitting to Roxburgh's right, a methodi-
cal sort with steely eyes that seldom left Adam. He was young but gray,
clean-shaven, and very neat. McAllister favored him, and had leaned to
his right several times as if receiving advice. The others from the AG's
office seemed to accede to his thoughts and movements. There was a
reference in one of the hundred articles Adam had clipped and filed away
about an infamous litigator in the AG's office known as Dr. Death, a
clever bird with a penchant for pushing death penalty cases to their
conclusion. Either his first or last name was Morris, and Adam vaguely
recalled a Morris something or other mentioned moments earlier during
Roxburgh's garbled introduction of his staff.

Adam assumed him to be the nefarious Dr. Death. Morris Henry was
his name.

"Well, hurry up and file them then," Slattery said with a good dose of
frustration. "I don't want to work around the clock as this thing goes
down to the wire."

"No sir," Adam said in mock sympathy.

Slattery glared at him for a moment, then returned to the paperwork
in front of him. "Very well, gentlemen, I suggest you stick by your
telephones Sunday night and Monday morning. I'U be calling as soon as
I've made a decision. This meeting is adjourned."

The conspiracy on the other side broke up in a flurry of papers and
files snatched from the table and sudden mumbled conversations. Adam
was nearest the door. He nodded at Slattery, offered a feeble "Good day.
Your Honor," and left the office. He gave a poHte grin to the secretary
and was into the haUway when someone called his name. It was the
governor, with two flunkies in tow.

"Can we talk a minute?" McAllister asked, thrusting a hand at Adam's
waist. They shook for a second.

"What about?"

"Just five minutes, okay."

THE CHAMBER 229

Adam looked at the governor's boys waiting a few feet away. "Alone.
Private. And off the record," he said.

"Sure," McAllister said, then pointed to a set of double doors. They
stepped inside a small empty courtroom with the lights off. The gover-
nor's hands were free. Someone else carried his briefcase and bags. He
stuck them deep in his pockets and leaned against a railing. He was lean
and well dressed, nice suit, fashionable silk tie, obligatory white cotton
shirt. He was under forty and aging remarkably weU. Only a touch of
gray tinted his sideburns. "How's Sam?" he asked, feigning deep con-
cern.

Adam snorted, looked away, then sat his briefcase on the floor. "Oh,
he's wonderful. I'll tell him you asked. He'll be thrilled."

"I'd heard he was in bad health."

"Health? You're trying to kill him. How can you be worried about his
health?"

"Just heard a rumor."

"He hates your guts, okay? His health is bad, but he can hang on for
another three weeks."

"Hate is nothing new for Sam, you know."

"What exactly do you want to talk about?"

"Just wanted to say hello. I'm sure we'll get together shortly."

"Look, Governor, I have a signed contract with my client that ex-
pressly forbids me from talking to you. I repeat, he hates you. You're the
reason he's on death row. He blames you for everything, and if he knew
we were talking now, he'd fire me."

"Your own grandfather would fire you?"

"Yes. I truly believe it. So if I read in tomorrow's paper that you met
with me today and we discussed Sam CayhaU, then I'U be on my way
back to Chicago, which will probably screw up your execution because
Sam won't have a lawyer. Can't kill a man if he doesn't have a lawyer."

"Says who?"

"Just keep it quiet, okay?"

"You have my word. But if we can't talk, then how do we discuss the
issue of clemency?"

"I don't know. I haven't reached that point yet."

McAllister's face was always pleasant. The comely smile was always in
place or just beneath the surface. "You have thought about clemency,
haven't you?"

"Yes. With three weeks to go, I've thought about clemency. Every
death row inmate dreams of a pardon. Governor, and that's why you
can't grant one. You pardon one convict, and you'll have the other fifty
pestering you for the same favor. Fifty families writing letters and calling

230 JOHN GRISHAM

night and day. Fifty lawyers pulling strings and trying to get in your
office. You and I both know it can't be done."

"I'm not sure he should die."

He said this while looking away, as if a change of heart was under
way, as if the years had matured him and softened his zeal to punish Sam.
Adam started to say something, then realized the magnitude of these last
words. He watched the floor for a minute, paying particular attention to
the governor's tasseled loafers. The governor was deep in thought.

"I'm not sure he should die, either," Adam said.

"How much has he told you?"

"About what?"

"About the Kramer bombing."

"He says he's told me everything."

"But you have doubts?"

"Yes."

"So do I. I always had doubts."

"Why?"

"Lots of reasons. Jeremiah Dogan was a notorious liar, and he was
scared to death of going to prison. The IRS had him cold, you know,
and he was convinced that if he went to prison he'd be raped and
tortured and killed by gangs of blacks. He was the Imperial Wizard, you
know. Dogan was also ignorant about a lot of things. He was sly and
hard to catch when it came to terrorism, but he didn't understand the
criminal justice system. I always thought someone, probably the FBI,
told Dogan that Sam had to be convicted or they'd ship him off to
prison. No conviction, no deal. He was a very eager witness on the
stand. He desperately wanted the jury to convict Sam."

"So he Hed?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"About what?"

"Have you asked Sam if he had an accomplice?"

Adam paused for a second and analyzed the question. "I reaUy can't
discuss what Sam and I have talked about. It's confidential."

"Of course it is. There are a lot of people in this state who secretly do
not wish to see Sam executed." McAllister was now watching Adam
closely.

"Are you one of them?"

"I don't know. But what if Sam didn't plan to kill either Marvin
Kramer or his sons? Sure Sam was there, right in the thick of it. But
what if someone else possessed the intent to murder?"

"Then Sam isn't as guilty as we think."

THE CHAMBER 231

"Right. He's certainly not innocent, but not guilty enough to be
executed either. This bothers me, Mr. Hall. Can I call you Adam?"

"Of course."

"I don't suppose Sam has mentioned anything about an accomplice."

"I really can't discuss that. Not now."

The governor slipped a hand from a pocket and gave Adam a business
card. "Two phone numbers on the back. One is my private office num-
ber. The other is my home number. All phone calls are confidential, I
swear. I play for the cameras sometimes, Adam, it goes with the job, but
I can also be trusted."

Adam took the card and looked at the handwritten numbers.

"I couldn't live with myself if I failed to pardon a man who didn't
deserve to die," McAllister said as he walked to the door. "Give me a
caU, but don't wait too late. This thing's already heating up. I'm getting
twenty phone calls a day."

He winked at Adam, showed him the sparkling teeth once again, and
left the room.

Adam sat in a metal chair against the wall, and looked at the front of
the card. It was gold-embossed with an official seal. Twenty calls a day.
What did that mean? Did the callers want Sam dead or did they want
him pardoned?

A lot of people in this state do not wish to see Sam executed, he'd
said, as if he was already weighing the votes he'd lose against those he
might gain.

TWENTY-FOUR

THE SMILE from the receptionist in the foyer was not as quick as
usual, and as Adam walked to his office he detected a more
somber atmosphere among the staff and the handful of lawyers.
The chatter was an octave lower. Things were a bit more urgent.

Chicago had arrived. It happened occasionally, not necessarily for
purposes of inspection, but more often than not to service a local cHent
or to conduct bureaucratic little firm meetings. No one had ever been
fired when Chicago arrived. No one had ever been cursed or abused.
But it always provided for a few anxious moments until Chicago left and
headed back North.

Adam opened his office door and nearly smacked into the worried
face of E. Garner Goodman, complete with green paisley bow tie, white
starched shirt, bushy gray hair. He'd been pacing around the room and
happened to be near the door when it opened. Adam stared at him, then
took his hand and shook it quickly.

"Come in, come in," Goodman said, closing the door as he invited
Adam into his own office. He hadn't smiled yet.

"What are you doing here?" Adam asked, throwing his briefcase on
the floor and walking to his desk. They faced each other.

Goodman stroked his neat gray beard, then adjusted his bow tie.
"There's a bit of an emergency, I'm afraid. Could be bad news."

"What?"

"Sit down, sit down. This might take a minute."

"No. I'm fine. What is it?" It had to be horrible if he needed to take
it sitting down.

THE CHAMBER 233

Goodman tinkered with his bow tie, rubbed his beard, then said,
"Well, it happened at nine this morning. You see, the Personnel Com-
mittee is made up of fifteen partners, almost all are younger guys. The
full committee has several subcommittees, of course, one for recruiting,
hiring, one for discipline, one for disputes, and on and on. And, as you
might guess, there's one for terminations. The Termination Subcommit-
tee met this morning, and guess who was there to orchestrate every-
thing."

"Daniel Rosen."

"Daniel Rosen. Evidently, he's been working the Termination Sub-
committee for ten days trying to line up enough votes for your dis-
missal."

Adam sat in a chair at the table, and Goodman sat across from him.

"There are seven members of the subcommittee, and they met this
morning at Rosen's request. There were five members present, so they
had a quorum. Rosen, of course, did not notify me or anyone else.
Termination meetings are strictly confidential, for obvious reasons, so
there was no requirement that he notify anyone."

"Not even me?"

"No, not even you. You were the only item on the agenda, and the
meeting lasted less than an hour. Rosen had the deck stacked before he
went in, but he presented his case very forcefully. Remember, he was a
courtroom brawler for thirty years. They record all termination meet-
ings, just in case there's litigation afterward, so Rosen made a complete
record. He, of course, claims that you were deceitful when you applied
for employment with Kravitz & Bane; that it presents the firm with a
conflict of interest, and on and on. And he had copies of a dozen or so
newspaper articles about you and Sam and the grandfather-grandson
angle. His argument was that you had embarrassed the firm. He was very
prepared. I think we underestimated him last Monday."

"And so they voted."

"Four to one to terminate you."

"Bastards!"

"I know. I've seen Rosen in tough spots before, and the guy can be
brutally persuasive. He usuaUy gets his way. He can't go to courtrooms
anymore, so he's picking fights around the office. He'll be gone in six
months."

"That's a small comfort at the moment."

"There's hope. Word finally filtered to my office around eleven, and
luckily Emmitt Wycoff was in. We went to Rosen's office and had a
terrible fight, then we got on the phone. Bottom Hne is this — the fuU

234 JOHN GRISHAM

Personnel Committee meets at eight o'clock in the morning to review
your dismissal. You need to be there."

"Eight o'clock in the morning!"

"Yeah. These guys are busy. Many have court dates at nine. Some
have depositions all day. Out of fifteen, we'll be lucky to have a quo-
rum."

"How much is a quorum?"

"Two-thirds. Ten. And if there's no quorum, then we might be in
trouble."

"Trouble! What do you call this?"

"It could get worse. If there's no quorum in the morning, then you
have the right to request another review in thirty days."

"Sam will be dead in thirty days."

"Maybe not. At any rate, I think we'll have the meeting in the morn-
ing. Emmitt and I have commitments from nine of the members to be
there."

"What about the four ^vho voted against me this morning?"

Goodman grinned and glanced away. "Guess. Rosen made sure his
votes can be there tomorrow."

Adam suddenly slapped the table with both hands. "I quit dammit!"

"You can't quit. You've just been terminated."

"Then I won't fight it. Sonofabitches!"

"Listen, Adam — "

"Sonofabitches!"

Goodman retreated for a moment to allow Adam to cool. He straight-
ened his bow tie and checked the growth of his beard. He tapped his
fingers on the table. Then he said, "Look, Adam, w^e're in good shape in
the morning, okay. Emmitt thinks so. I think so. The firm's behind you
on this. We believe in what you're doing, and, frankly, we've enjoyed
the pubUcity. There' ve been nice stories in the Chicago papers."

"The firm certainly appears to be supportive."

"Just Hsten to me. We can pull this off tomorrow. I'U do most of the
talking. Wycoff s twisting arms right now. We've got other people twist-
ing arms."

"Rosen's not stupid, Mr. Goodman. He wants to win, that's all. He
doesn't care about me, doesn't care about Sam, or you, or anyone else
involved. He simply wants to win. It's a contest, and I'll bet he's on the
phone right now trying to line up votes."

"Then let's go fight his cranky ass, okay. Let's walk into that meeting
tomorrow with a chip on our shoulders. Let's make Rosen the bad guy.
Honestly, Adam, the man does not have a lot of jQriends."

Adam walked to the window and peeked through the shades. Foot

THE CHAMBER 235

traffic was heavy on the Mall below. It was almost five. He had close to
five thousand dollars in mutual funds, and if he was frugal and if he made
certain lifestyle changes the money might last for six months. His salary
was sixty-two thousand, and replacing it in the very near future would
be difficult. But he had never been one to worry about money, and he
wouldn't start now. He was much more concerned about the next three
weeks. After a ten-day career as a death penalty lawyer, he knew he
needed help.

"What will it be like at the end?" he asked after a heavy silence.

Goodman slowly rose from his chair and walked to another window.
"Pretty crazy. You won't sleep much the last four days. You'll be run-
ning in all directions. The courts are unpredictable. The system is unpre-
dictable. You keep filing petitions and appeals knowing full well they
won't work. The press will be dogging you. And, most importantly,
you'll need to spend as much time as possible with your client. It's crazy
work and it's aU free."

"So I'll need some help."

"Oh yes. You can't do it alone. When Maynard Tole was executed,
we had a lawyer from Jackson staked out at the governor's office, one at
the supreme court clerk's office in Jackson, one in Washington, and two
on death row. That's why you have to go fight tomorrow, Adam. You'll
need the firm and its resources. You can't do it by yourself It takes a
team."

"This is a real kick in the crotch."

"I know. A year ago you were in law school, now you've been termi-
nated. I know it hurts. But believe me, Adam, it's just a fluke. It won't
stand. Ten years from now you'll be a partner in this firm, and you'U be
terrorizing young associates."

"Don't bet on it."

"Let's go to Chicago. I've got two tickets for a seven-fifteen flight.
We'll be in Chicago by eight-thirty, and we'll find a nice restaurant."

"I need to get some clothes."

"Fine. Meet me at the airport at six-thirty."

THE MATTER was effectively settled before the meeting began. Eleven
members of the Personnel Committee were present, a sufficient number
for a quorum. They gathered in a locked library on the sixtieth floor,
around a long table with gallons of coffee in the center of it, and they
brought with them thick files and portable Dictaphones and fatigued
pocket schedules. One brought his secretary, and she sat in the hallway
and worked furiously. These were busy people, all of them less than an
hour away from another frantic day of endless conferences, meetings,

236 JOHN GRISHAM

briefings, depositions, trials, telephones, and significant lunches. Ten
men, one woman, aU in their late thirties or early forties, aU partners of
K&B, aU in a hurry to return to their cluttered desks.

The matter of Adam HaU was a nuisance to them. The Personnel
Committee, in fact, was a nuisance to them. It was not one of the more
pleasant panels upon which to serve, but they'd been duly elected and
no one dared decline. All for the firm. Go team Go!

Adam had arrived at the office at seven-thirty. He'd been gone for ten
days, his longest absence yet. Emmitt Wycoff had shifted Adam's work to
another young associate. There was never a shortage of rookies at Kravitz
& Bane.

By eight o'clock he was hiding in a small, useless conference room
near the library on the sixtieth floor. He was nervous, but v^orked hard
at not showing it. He sipped coffee and read the morning papers.
Parchman was a world away. And he studied the Hst of fifteen names on
the Personnel Committee, none of whom he knew. Eleven strangers
who would kick his future around for the next hour, then vote quickly
and get on with more important matters. Wycoff checked in and said
hello a few minutes before eight. Adam thanked him for everything,
apologized for being so much trouble, and listened as Emmitt promised a
speedy and satisfactory outcome.

Garner Goodman opened the door at five minutes after eight. "Looks
pretty good," he said, almost in a whisper. "Right now there are eleven
present. We have commitments from at least five. Three of Rosen's votes
from the subcommittee are here, but it looks Hke he might be a vote or
two shy."

"Is Rosen here?" Adam asked, knowing the answer but hoping that
maybe the old bastard had died in his sleep.

"Yes, of course. And I think he's worried. Emmitt was stiU making
phone calls at ten last night. We've got the votes, and Rosen knows it."
Goodman eased through the door and was gone.

At eight-fifteen, the chairman called the meeting to order and de-
clared a quorum. The termination of Adam HaU was the sole issue on
the agenda, indeed the only reason for this special meeting. Emmitt
Wycoff went first, and in ten minutes did a fine job of telling how
wonderful Adam was. He stood at one end of the table in front of a row
of bookshelves, and chatted comfortably as if trying to persuade a jury.
At least half of the eleven did not hear a word. They scanned documents
and juggled their calendars.

Garner Goodman spoke next. He quickly summarized the case of
Sam CayhaU, and provided the honest assessment that, in all HkeHhood,
Sam would be executed in three weeks. Then he bragged on Adam, said

THE CHAMBER 237

he might have been wrong in not disclosing his relationship with Sam,
but what the hell. That was then, and this is now, and the present is a
helluva lot more important when your chent has only three weeks to
Hve.

Not a single question was asked of either WycofF or Goodman. The
questions, evidently, were being saved for Rosen.

Lawyers have long memories. You cut one's throat today, and he'll
wait patiently in the weeds for years until he can return the favor. Daniel
Rosen had lots of favors lying around the hallways of Kravitz & Bane,
and as managing partner he was in the process of collecting them. He'd
stepped on people, his own people, for years. He was a bully, a liar, a
thug. In his glory days, he'd been the heart and soul of the firm, and he
knew it. No one would challenge him. He had abused young associates
and tormented his feUow partners. He had run roughshod over commit-
tees, ignored firm policies, stolen cUents from other lawyers at Kravitz &
Bane, and now in the decline of his career he was collecting favors.

Two minutes into his presentation, he was interrupted for the first
time by a young partner who rode motorcycles with Emmitt Wycoff.
Rosen was pacing, as if playing to a packed courtroom in his glory days,
when the question stopped him. Before he could think of a sarcastic
answer, another question hit him. By the time he could think of an
answer to either of the first two, a third came from nowhere. The brawl
was on.

The three interrogators worked like an efficient tag team, and it was
apparent that they had been practicing. They took turns needling Rosen
with relentless questions, and within a minute he was cursing and throw-
ing insults. They kept their collective cool. Each had a legal pad with
what appeared to be long lists of questions.

"Where's the conflict of interest, Mr. Rosen?"

"Certainly a lawyer can represent a family member, right, Mr. Ro-
sen?"

"Did the appUcation for employment specifically ask Mr. Hall if this
firm represented a member of his family?"

"Do you have something against publicity, Mr. Rosen?"

"Why do you consider the publicity to be negative?"

"Would you try to help a family member on death row?"

"What are your feelings about the death penalty, Mr. Rosen?"

"Do you secretly want to see Sam Cayhall executed because he kiUed
Jews?"

"Don't you think you've ambushed Mr. Hall?"

It was not a pleasant sight. Some of the greatest courtroom victories in
recent Chicago history belonged to Daniel Rosen, and here he was

238 JOHN GRISHAM

getting his teeth kicked in in a meaningless fight before a committee.
Not a jury. Not a judge. A committee.

The idea of retreat had never entered his mind. He pressed on, grow-
ing louder and more caustic. His retorts and acid repUes grew personal,
and he said some nasty things about Adam.

This was a mistake. Others joined the firay, and soon Rosen was
flaiHng Hke wounded prey, just a few steps in front of the wolf pack.
When it was apparent that he could never reach a majority of the com-
mittee, he lowered his voice and regained his composure.

He rallied nicely with a quiet summation about ethical considerations
and avoiding the appearance of impropriety , scriptures that lawyers learn
in law school and spit at each other when fighting but otherwise ignore
when convenient.

When Rosen finished, he stormed out of the room, mentally taking
notes of those who'd had the nerve to grill him. He'd write their names
in a file the minute he got to his desk, and one day, well, one day he'd
just do something about it.

Papers and pads and electronic equipment vanished from the table
which was suddenly clean except for the coffee and empty cups. The
chairman called for a vote. Rosen got five. Adam got six, and the Per-
sonnel Committee adjourned itself immediately and disappeared in a
rush.

"Six to five?" Adam repeated as he looked at the reheved but unsmil-
ing faces of Goodman and Wycoff.

"A regular landslide," Wycoff quipped.

"Could be worse," Goodman said. "You could be out of a job."

"Why am I not ecstatic? I mean, one lousy vote and I'd be history."

"Not really," Wycoff explained. "The votes were counted before the
meeting. Rosen had maybe two solid votes, and the others stuck with
him because they knew you would win. You have no idea of the amount
of arm twisting that took place last night. This does it for Rosen. He'll
be gone in three months."

"Maybe quicker," added Goodman. "He's a loose cannon. Every-
body's sick of him."

"Including me," Adam said.

Wycoff glanced at his watch. It was eight forty-five, and he had to be
in court at nine. "Look, Adam, I've gotta run," he said, buttoning his
jacket. "When are you going back to Memphis?"

"Today, I guess."

"Can we have lunch? I'd Hke to talk to you."

tec "

5ure.

THE CHAMBER 239

He opened the door, and said, "Great. My secretary will give you a
call. Gotta run. See you." And he was gone.

Goodman suddenly glanced at his watch too. His watch ran much
slower than the real lawyers in the firm, but he did have appointments to
keep. "1 need to see someone in my office. I'll join you guys for lunch."

"One lousy vote," Adam repeated, staring at the wall.

"Come on, Adam. It wasn't that close."

"It certainly feels close."

"Look, we need to spend a few hours together before you leave. I
wanna hear about Sam, okay? Let's start with lunch." He opened the
door and was gone.

Adam sat on the table, shaking his head.

TWENTY-FIVE

IF BAKER COOLEY and the other lawyers in the Memphis office
knew anything about Adam's sudden termination and its quick re-
versal, it was not apparent. They treated him the same, which was to
say they kept to themselves and stayed away from his office. They were
not rude to him, because, after all, he was from Chicago. They smiled
when forced to, and they could muster a moment of small talk in the
hallways if Adam was in the mood. But they were corporate lawyers,
"with starched shirts and soft hands which were unaccustomed to the dirt
and grime of criminal defense. They did not go to jails or prisons or
holding tanks to visit with clients, nor did they wrangle with cops and
prosecutors and cranky judges. They worked primarily behind their
desks and around mahogany conference tables. Their time was spent
talking to clients who could afford to pay them several hundred dollars
an hour for advice, and when they weren't talking to cHents they were
on the phone or doing lunch with other lawyers and bankers and insur-
ance executives.

There'd been enough in the newspapers already to arouse resentment
around the office. Most of the lawyers were embarrassed to see the name
of their firm associated with a character such as Sam Cayhall. Most of
them had no idea that he'd been represented by Chicago for seven years.
Now friends were asking questions. Other lawyers were making wise-
cracks. Wives were humiliated over garden club teas. In-laws were sud-
denly interested in their legal careers.

Sam Cayhall and his grandson had quickly become a pain in the ass for
the Memphis office, but nothing could be done about it.

THECHAMBER 241

Adam could sense it but didn't care. It was a temporary office, suitable
for three more weeks and hopefully not a day longer. He stepped from
the elevator Friday morning, and ignored the receptionist who was sud-
denly busy arranging magazines. He spoke to his secretary, a young
woman named Darlene, and she handed him a phone message from
Todd Marks at the Memphis Press.

He took the pink phone message to his office and threw it in the
wastebasket. He hung his coat on a hanger, and began covering the table
with paper. There were pages of notes he'd taken on the flights to and
from Chicago, and similar pleadings he'd borrowed from Goodman's
files, and dozens of copies of recent federal decisions.

He was soon lost in a world of legal theories and strategies. Chicago
was a fading memory.

ROLLIE WEDGE entered the Brinkley Plaza building through the front
doors to the MaD. He had waited patiently at a table of a sidewalk cafe
until the black Saab appeared then turned into a nearby parking garage.
He was dressed in a white shirt with a tie, seersucker slacks, casual
loafers. He sipped an iced tea while watching Adam walk along the
sidewalk and enter the building.

The lobby was empty as Wedge scanned the directory. Kravitz & Bane
had the third and fourth floors. There were four identical elevators, and
he rode one to the eighth floor. He stepped into a narrow foyer. To the
right was a door with the name of a trust company emblazoned in brass,
and to the left was an adjoining hallway lined with doors to all kinds of
enterprises. Next to the water fountain was a door to the stairway. He
casually walked down eight flights, checking doors as he went. No one
passed him in the stairwell. He reentered the lobby, then rode the other
elevator, alone, to the third floor. He smiled at the receptionist, who was
still busy with the magazines, and was about to ask directions to the trust
company when the phone rang and she became occupied with it. A set
of double glass doors separated the reception area from the entryway to
the elevators. He rode to the fourth floor, and found an identical set of
doors, but no receptionist. The doors were locked. On a wall to the
right was a coded entry panel with nine numbered buttons.

He heard voices, and stepped into the stairwell. There was no lock on
the door from either side. He waited for a moment, then eased through
the door and took a long drink of water. An elevator opened, and a
young man in khakis and blue blazer bounced out with a cardboard box
under one arm and a thick book in his right hand. He headed tor the
Kravitz & Bane doors. He hummed a loud tune and did not notice as

242 JOHN GRISHAM

Wedge fell in behind him. He stopped and carefuUy balanced the law
book on top of the box, freeing his right hand to punch the code. Seven,
seven, three, and the panel beeped with each number. Wedge was inches
away, peering over his shoulder and gathering the code.

The young man quickly grabbed the book, and was about to turn
around when Wedge bumped into him slightly, and said, "Damn! Sorry!
I wasn't — " Wedge took a step backwards and looked at the lettering
above the door. "This isn't Riverbend Trust," he said, dazed and bewil-
dered.

"Nope. This is Kravitz & Bane."

"What floor is this?" Wedge asked. Something clicked and the door
was free.

"Fourth. Riverbend Trust is on the eighth."

"Sorry," Wedge said again, now embarrassed and almost pitiful.
"Must've got off on the wrong floor."

The young man frowned and shook his head, then opened the door.

"Sorry," Wedge said for the third time as he backed away. The door
closed and the kid was gone. Wedge rode the elevator to the main lobby
and left the building.

He left downtown, and drove east and north for ten minutes until he
came to a section of the city filled with government housing. He pulled
into the driveway beside the Auburn House, and was stopped by a
uniformed guard. He was just turning around, he explained, lost again,
and he was very sorry. As he backed into the street, he saw the burgundy
Jaguar o^vned by Lee Booth parked between two subcompacts.

He headed toward the river, to\vard downtown again, and tw^enty
minutes later parked at an abandoned red-brick warehouse on the bluflfs.
While sitting in his car, he quickly changed into a tan shirt with blue
trim around the short sleeves and the name Rusty stitched above the
pocket. Then he was moving swiftly but inconspicuously on foot around
the corner of the building and down a slope through weeds until he
stopped in the brush. A small tree provided shade as he caught his breath
and hid from the scorching sun. In front of him was a small field of
Bermuda grass, thick and green and obviously well tended, and beyond
the grass was a row^ of twenty luxury condominiums hanging over the
edge of the bluff. A fence of brick and iron presented a vexing problem,
and he studied it patiently from the privacy of the brush.

One side of the condos was the parking lot with a closed gate leading
to the only entrance and exit. A uniformed guard manned the small,
boxlike, air-conditioned gatehouse. Few cars were in sight. It was almost
10 A.M. The outUne of the guard could be seen through tinted glass.

THE CHAMBER 243

Wedge ignored the fence and chose instead to penetrate from the
bluff. He crawled along a row of boxwoods, clutching handfuls of grass
to keep from sliding eighty feet onto Riverside Drive. He slid under
wooden patios, some of which hung ten feet into the air as the bluff
dropped fast below them. He stopped at the seventh condo, and swung
himself onto the patio.

He rested for a moment in a wicker chair and toyed with an outside
cable as if on a routine service call. No one was watching. Privacy was
important to these wealthy people, they paid for it dearly, and each little
terrace was shielded from the next by decorative wooden planks and all
sorts of hanging vegetation. His shirt by now was sticky and clinging to
his back.

The sliding glass door from the patio to the kitchen was locked, of
course, a rather simple lock that slowed him for almost one minute. He
picked it, leaving neither damage nor evidence, then glanced around for
another look before he went in. This was the tricky part. He assumed
there was a security system, probably one with contacts at every window
and door. Since no one was home, it was highly probable the system
would be activated. The delicate question was exactly how much noise
would be made when he opened the door. Would there be a silent alert,
or would he be startled with a screaming siren?

He took a breath, then carefully slid the door open. No siren greeted
him. He took a quick look at the monitor above the door, then stepped
inside.

The relay immediately alerted Willis, the guard at the gate, who heard
a frantic though not very loud beeping sound from his monitoring
screen. He looked at the red light blinking at Number 7, home of Lee
Booth, and he waited for it to stop. Mrs. Booth tripped her alarm at least
twice a month, which was about the average for the flock he guarded.
He checked his clipboard and noticed that Mrs. Booth had left at nine-
fifteen. But she occasionally had sleepovers, usually men, and now she
had her nephew staying with her, and so Willis watched the red Hght for
forty-five seconds until it stopped blinking and fixed itself in a perma-
nent ON position.

This was unusual, but no need to panic. These people lived behind
walls and paid for around-the-clock armed guards, so they were not
serious about their alarm systems. He quickly dialed Mrs. Booth's num-
ber, and there was no answer. He punched a button and set in motion a
recorded 911 call requesting police assistance. He opened the key drawer
and selected one for Number 7, then left the gatehouse and walked
quickly across the parking lot to see about Mrs. Booth's unit. He unfas-
tened his holster so he could grab his revolver, just in case.

244 JOHN GRISHAM

Rollie Wedge stepped into the gatehouse and saw the open key
drawer. He took a set, marked for Unit 7, along with a card with the
alarm code and instructions, and for good measure he also grabbed
keys and cards for Numbers 8 and 13, just to baffle old WilHs and the
cops.

TWENTY-SIX

THEY WENT to the cemetery first, to pay their respects to the
dead. It covered two small hills on the edge of Clanton, one
Hned with elaborate tombstones and monuments where promi-
nent families had buried themselves together, over time, and had their
names carved in heavy granite. The second hiU was for the newer graves,
and as time had passed in Mississippi the tombstones had grown smaller.
Stately oaks and elms shaded most of the cemetery. The grass was
trimmed low and the shrubs were neat. Azaleas were in every corner.
Clanton placed a priority on its memories.

It was a lovely Saturday, with no clouds and a slight breeze that had
started during the night and chased away the humidity. The rains were
gone for a while, and the hillsides were lush with greenery and wild-
flowers. Lee knelt by her mother's headstone and placed a small bouquet
of flowers under her name. She closed her eyes as Adam stood behind
her and stared at the grave. Anna Gates CayhaU, September 3, 1922-
September 18, 1977. She was fifty-five when she died, Adam calculated,
so he was thirteen, still living in blissful ignorance somewhere in South-
ern California.

She was buried alone, under a single headstone, and this in itself had
presented some problems. Mates for life are usually buried side by side, at
least in the South, with the first one occupying the first slot under a
double headstone. Upon each visit to the deceased, the survivor gets to
see his or her name already carved and just waiting.

"Daddy was fifty-six when Mother died," Lee explained as she took
Adam's hand and inched away from the grave. "I wanted him to bury

246 JOHN GRISHAM

her in a plot where he could one day join her, but he refused. I guess he
figured he still had a few years left, and he might remarry."

"You told me once that she didn't Hke Sam."

"I'm sure she loved him in a way, they were together for almost forty
years. But they were never close. As I grew^ older I reaHzed she didn't
Hke to be around him. She confided in me at times. She was a simple
country girl who married young, had babies, stayed home with them,
and was expected to obey her husband. And this was not unusual for
those times. I think she was a very frustrated woman."

"Maybe she didn't want Sam next to her for eternity."

"I thought about that. In fact, Eddie wanted them separated and
buried at opposite ends of the cemetery."

"Good for Eddie."

"He wasn't joking either."

"How much did she know about Sam and the Klan?"

"I have no idea. It was not something we discussed. I remember she
was humiliated after his arrest. She even stayed with Eddie and you guys
for a while because the reporters were bothering her."

"And she didn't attend any of his trials."

"No. He didn't want her to watch. She had a problem with high
blood pressure, and Sam used that as an excuse to keep her away from
It.

They turned and walked along a narrow lane through the old section
of the cemetery. They held hands and looked at the passing tombstones.
Lee pointed to a row of trees across the street on another hill. "That's
where the blacks are buried," she said. "Under those trees. It's a smaU
cemetery."

"You're kidding? Even today?"

"Sure, you know, keep 'em in their place. These people couldn't
stand the idea of a Negro lying amongst their ancestors."

Adam shook his head in disbehef They cHmbed the hill and rested
under an oak. The rows of graves spread peacefiiUy beneath them. The
dome of the Ford County Courthouse glittered in the sun a few blocks
away.

"I played here as a Htde girl," she said quietly. She pointed to her
right, to the north. "Every Fourth of July the city celebrates with a
fireworks display, and the best seats in the house are here in the ceme-
tery. There's a park down there, and that's where they shoot from. We'd
load up our bikes and come to town to watch the parade and swim in
the city pool and play with our friends. And right after dark, we'd all
gather around here, in the midst of the dead, and sit on these tombstones
to watch the fireworks. The men would stay by their trucks where the

THE CHAMBER 247

beer and whiskey were hidden, and the women would lie on quilts and
tend to the babies. We would run and romp and ride bikes all over the
place."

"Eddie?"

"Of course. Eddie was just a normal little brother, pesky as hell some-
times, but very much a boy. I miss him, you know. I miss him very
much. We weren't close for many years, but when I come back to this
town I think of my little brother."

"I miss him too."

"He and I came here, to this very spot, the night he graduated from
high school. I had been in NashviUe for two years, and I came back
because he wanted me to watch him graduate. We had a bottle of cheap
wine, and I think it was his first drink. I'll never forget it. We sat here on
Emil Jacob's tombstone and sipped wine until the bottle was empty."

"What year was it?"

"Nineteen sixty-one, I think. He wanted to join the Army so he
could leave Clanton and get away from Sam. I didn't want my little
brother in the Army, and we discussed it until the sun came up."

"He was pretty confused?"

"He was eighteen, probably as confused as most kids who've just
finished high school. Eddie was terrified that if he stayed in Clanton
something would happen to him, some mysterious genetic flaw would
surface and he'd become another Sam. Another Cayhall with a hood.
He was desperate to run from this place."

"But you ran as soon as you could."

"I know, but I was tougher than Eddie, at least at the age of eighteen.
I couldn't see him leaving home so young. So we sipped wine and tried
to get a handle on life."

"Did my father ever have a handle on life?"

"I doubt it, Adam. We were both tormented by our father and his
family's hatred. There are things I hope you never learn, stories that I
pray remain untold. I guess I pushed them away, while Eddie couldn't."

She took his hand again and they strolled into the sunlight and down a
dirt path toward the newer section of the cemetery. She stopped and
pointed to a row of small headstones. "Here are your great-grandparents,
along with aunts, uncles, and other assorted Cayhalls."

Adam counted eight in all. He read the names and dates, and spoke
aloud the poetry and Scriptures and farewells inscribed in granite.

"There are lots more out in the country," Lee said. "Most of the
Cayhalls originated around Karaway, fifteen miles from here. They were
country people, and they're buried behind rural churches."

"Did you come here for these burials?"

248 JOHN GRISHAM

"A few. It's not a close family, Adam. Some of these people had been
dead for years before I knew about it."

"Why wasn't your mother buried here?"

"Because she didn't want to be. She knew she was about to die, and
she picked the spot. She never considered herself a Cayhall. She was a
Gates."

"Smart woman."

Lee pulled a handful of weeds from her grandmother's grave, and
rubbed her fingers over the name of Lydia Newsome Cayhall, who died
in 1961 at the age of seventy-two. "I remember her well," Lee said,
kneeHng on the grass. "A fine, Christian woman. She'd roll over in her
grave if she knew her third son was on death row."

"What about him?" Adam asked, pointing to Lydia's husband, Na-
thaniel Lucas Cayhall, who died in 1952 at the age of sixty-four. The
fondness left Lee's face. "A mean old man," she said. "I'm sure he'd be
proud of Sam. Nat, as he was known, was killed at a funeral."

"A funeral?"

"Yes. Traditionally, funerals were social occasions around here. They
were preceded by long wakes with lots of visiting and eating. And drink-
ing. Life was hard in the rural South, and often the funerals turned into
drunken brawls. Nat was very violent, and he picked a fight with the
wrong men just after a funeral service. They beat him to death with a
stick of wood."

"Where was Sam?"

"Right in the middle of it. He was beaten too, but survived. I was a
Httle girl, and I remember Nat's funeral. Sam was in the hospital and
couldn't attend."

"Did he get retribution?"

"Of course."

"How^?"

"Nothing was ever proven, but several years later the two men who'd
beaten Nat were released from prison. They surfaced briefly around
here, then disappeared. One body was found months later next door in
Milburn County. Beaten, of course. The other man was never found.
The police questioned Sam and his brothers, but there was no proof"

"Do you think he did it?"

"Sure he did. Nobody messed with the Cayhalls back then. They
were known to be half-crazy and mean as hell."

They left the family gravesites and continued along the path. "So,
Adam, the question for us is, where do we bury Sam?"

"I think we should bury him over there, with the blacks. That would
serve him right."

THE CHAMBER 249

"What makes you think they'd want him?"

"Good point."

"Seriously."

"Sam and I have not reached that point yet."

"Do you think he'll want to be buried here? In Ford County?"

"I don't know. We haven't discussed it, for obvious reasons. There's
still hope."

"How much hope?"

"A trace. Enough to keep fighting."

They left the cemetery on foot, and walked along a tranquil street
with worn sidewalks and ancient oaks. The homes were old and well
painted, with long porches and cats resting on the front steps. Children
raced by on bikes and skateboards, and old people rocked in their porch
swings and waved slowly. "These are my old stomping grounds, Adam,"
Lee said as they walked aimlessly along. Her hands were stuck deep in
denim pockets, her eyes moistened with memories that were at once sad
and pleasant. She looked at each house as if she'd stayed there as a child
and could remember the little girls who'd been her friends. She could
hear the giggles and laughs, the silly games and the serious fights of ten-
year-olds.

"Were those happy times?" Adam asked.

"I don't know. We never lived in town, so we were known as country
kids. I always longed for one of these houses, with friends all around and
stores a few blocks away. The town kids considered themselves to be a
bit better than us, but it wasn't much of a problem. My best friends lived
here, and I spent many hours playing in these streets, climbing these
trees. Those were good times, I guess. The memories from the house in
the country are not pleasant."

"Because of Sam?"

An elderly lady in a flowered dress and large straw hat was sweeping
around her front steps as they approached. She glanced at them, then she
froze and stared. Lee slowed then stopped near the walkway to the
house. She looked at the old woman, and the old woman looked at Lee.
"Mornin', Mrs. Langston," Lee said in a friendly drawl.

Mrs. Langston gripped the broom handle and stiffened her back, and
seemed content to stare.

"I'm Lee Cayhall. You remember me," Lee drawled again.

As the name Cayhall drifted across the tiny lawn, Adam caught him-
self glancing around to see if anyone else heard it. He was prepared to be
embarrassed if the name fell on other ears. If Mrs. Langston remembered
Lee, it was not apparent. She managed a polite nod of the head, just a

250 JOHN GRISHAM

quick up and do^vn motion, rather awkward as if to say, "Good morning
to you. Now move along."

"Nice to see you again," Lee said and began walking away. Mrs.
Langston scurried up the steps and disappeared inside. "I dated her son
in high school," Lee said, shaking her head in disbeHef.

"She was thrilled to see you."

"She was always sort of wacky," Lee said without conviction. "Or
maybe she's afraid to talk to a Cayhall. Afraid of what the neighbors
might say."

"I think it might be best if we go incognito for the rest of the day.
What about it?"

"It's a deal."

They passed other folks puttering in their flower beds and waiting for
the mailman, but they said nothing. Lee covered her eyes with sun
shades. They zigzagged through the neighborhood in the general direc-
tion of the central square, chatting about Lee's old friends and where
they were now. She kept in touch with two of them, one in Clanton
and one in Texas. They avoided family history until they were on a
street with smaller, wood-framed houses stacked tightly together. They
stopped at the corner, and Lee nodded at something down the street.

"You see the third house on the right, the Uttle brown one there?"

"Yes."

"That's where you lived. We could walk down there but I see people
moving about."

Two small children played with toy guns in the front yard and some-
one was swinging on the narrow firont porch. It was a square house,
small, neat, perfect for a young couple having babies.

Adam had been almost three when Eddie and Evelyn disappeared, and
as he stood on the corner he tried desperately to remember something
about the house. He couldn't.

"It was painted white back then, and of course the trees were smaller.
Eddie rented it fi:om a local real estate agent."

"Was it nice?"

"Nice enough. They hadn't been married long. They were just kids
with a new child. Eddie worked in an auto parts store, then he worked
for the state highway department. Then he took another job."

"Sounds familiar."

"Evelyn worked part-time in a jewelry store on the square. I think
they were happy. She was not from here, you know^, and so she didn't
know a lot of people. They kept to themselves."

They walked by the house and one of the children aimed an orange
machine gun at Adam. There were no memories of the place to be

THECHAMBER 251

evoked at that moment. He smiled at the child and looked away. They
were soon on another street with the square in sight.

Lee was suddenly a tour guide and historian. The Yankees had burned
Clanton in 1863, the bastards, and after the war, General Clanton, a
Confederate hero whose family owned the county, returned, with only
one leg, the other one lost somewhere on the battlefield at Shiloh, and
designed the new courthouse and the streets around it. His original
drawings were on the wall upstairs in the courthouse. He wanted lots of
shade so he planted oaks in perfect rows around the new courthouse. He
was a man of vision who could see the small town rising from the ashes
and prospering, so he designed the streets in an exact square around the
courthouse common. They had walked by the great man's grave, she
said, just a moment ago, and she would show it to him later.

There was a struggling mall north of town and a row of discount
supermarkets to the east, but the people of Ford County stiU enjoyed
shopping around the square on Saturday morning, she explained as they
strolled along the sidewalk next to Washington Street. Traffic was slow
and the pedestrians were even slower. The buildings were old and ad-
joining, filled with lawyers and insurance agents, banks and cafes, hard-
ware stores and dress shops. The sidewalk was covered with canopies,
awnings, and verandas from the offices and stores. Creaky fans hung low
and spun sluggishly. They stopped in front of an ancient pharmacy, and
Lee removed her sunglasses. "This was a hangout," she explained.
"There was a soda fountain in the back with a jukebox and racks of
comic books. You could buy an enormous cherry sundae for a nickel,
and it took hours to eat it. It took even longer if the boys were here."

Like something from a movie, Adam thought. They stopped in front
of a hardware store, and for some reason examined the shovels and hoes
and rakes leaning against the window. Lee looked at the battered double
doors, opened and held in place by bricks, and thought of something
from her childhood. But she kept it to herself.

They crossed the street, hand in hand, and passed a group of old men
whittling wood and chewing tobacco around the war memorial. She
nodded at a statue and informed him quietly that this was General
Clanton, with both legs. The courthouse was not open for business on
Saturdays. They bought colas from a machine outside and sipped them in
a gazebo on the front lawn. She told the story of the most famous trial in
the history of Ford County, the murder trial of Carl Lee Hailey in 1984.
He was a black man who shot and killed two rednecks who'd raped his
little daughter. There were marches and protests by blacks on one side
and Klansmen on the other, and the National Guard actually camped
out here, around the courthouse, to keep the peace. Lee had driven

252 JOHN GRISHAM

down from Memphis one day to watch the spectacle. He was acquitted
by an all-white jury.

Adam remembered the trial. He'd been a junior at Pepperdine, and
had followed it in the papers because it was happening in the town of his
birth.

When she was a child, entertainment was scarce, and trials were al-
ways well attended. Sam had brought her and Eddie here once to watch
the trial of a man accused of killing a hunting dog. He was found guilty
and spent a year in prison. The county was spHt — the city folks were
against the conviction for such a lowly crime, while the country folks
placed a higher value on good beagles. Sam had been particularly happy
to see the man sent away.

Lee wanted to show him something. They walked around the court-
house to the rear door where two water fountains stood ten feet apart.
Neither had been used in years. One had been for whites, the other for
blacks. She remembered the story of Rosia Alfie Gatewood, Miss AlHe as
she was known, the first black person to drink firom the white fountain
and escape without injury. Not long after that, the water Unes were
disconnected.

They found a table in a crowded cafe known simply as The Tea
Shoppe, on the west side of the square. She told stories, aU of them
pleasant and most of them funny, as they ate BLT's and french fries. She
kept her sunglasses on, and Adam caught her watching the people.

THEY LEFT CLANTON after lunch, and after a leisurely walk back to
the cemetery. Adam drove, and Lee pointed this way and that until they
were on a county highway running through small, neat farms with cows
grazing the hillsides. They passed occasional pockets of white trash —
dilapidated double-wide trailers with junk cars strewn about — and they
passed run-down shotgun houses still inhabited by poor blacks. But the
hilly countryside was pretty, for the most part, and the day was beautiful.

She pointed again, and they turned onto a smaller, paved road that
snaked its way deeper into the sticks. They finally stopped in firont of an
abandoned white fiame house with weeds shooting fi-om the porch and
ivy swarming into the windows. It was fifty yards firom the road, and the
gravel drive leading to it was guUied and impassable. The front lawn was
overgrown with Johnsongrass and cocklebur. The mailbox was barely
visible in the ditch beside the road.

"The CayhaU estate," she mumbled, and they sat for a long time in
the car and looked at the sad Httle house.

"What happened to it?" Adam finally asked.

"Oh, it was a good house. Didn't have much of a chance, though.

THE CHAMBER 253

The people were a disappointment." She slowly removed her sunglasses
and wiped her eyes. "I lived here for eighteen years, and I couldn't wait
to leave it."

"Why is it abandoned?"

She took a deep breath, and tried to arrange the story. "I think it was
paid for many years ago, but Daddy mortgaged it to pay the lawyers for
his last trial. He, of course, never came home again, and at some point
the bank foreclosed. There are eighty acres around it, and everything was
lost. I haven't been back here since the foreclosure. I asked Phelps to buy
it, and he said no. I couldn't blame him. I really didn't want to own it
myself. I heard later from some friends here that it was rented several
times, and I guess eventually abandoned. I didn't know if the house was
still standing."

"What happened to the personal belongings?"

"The day before the foreclosure, the bank allowed me to go in and
box up anything I wanted. I saved some things — photo albums, keep-
sakes, yearbooks. Bibles, some of Mother's valuables. They're in storage
in Memphis."

"I'd like to see them."

"The furniture was not worth saving, not a decent piece of anything.
My mother was dead, my brother had just committed suicide, and my
father had just been sent to death row, and I was not in the mood to
keep a lot of memorabilia. It was a horrible experience, going through
that dirty little house and trying to salvage objects that might one day
bring a smile. Hell, I wanted to burn everything. Almost did."

"You're not serious."

"Of course I am. After I'd been here for a couple of hours, I decided
to just burn the damned house and everything in it. Happens all the
time, right? I found an old lantern with some kerosene in it, and I sat it
on the kitchen table and talked to it as I boxed stuff up. It would' ve been
easy."

"Why didn't you?"

"I don't know. I wish I'd had the guts to do it, but I remember
worrying about the bank and the foreclosure and, weU, arson is a crime,
isn't it? I remember laughing at the idea of going off to prison where I'd
be with Sam. That's why I didn't strike a match. I was afraid I'd get in
trouble and go to prison."

The car was hot now, and Adam opened his door. "I want to look
around," he said, getting out. They picked their way down the gravel
drive, stepping over gullies two feet wide. They stopped at the front
porch and looked at the rotting boards.

"I'm not going in there," she said firmly and pulled her hand away

254 JOHN GRISHAM

from his. Adam studied the decaying porch and decided against stepping
on it. He walked along the front of the house, looking at the broken
windows with vines disappearing inside. He followed the drive around
the house, and Lee tagged along.

The backyard was shaded by old oaks and maples, and the ground was
bare in places where the sun was kept out. It stretched for an eighth of a
mile down a slight incHne until it stopped at a thicket. The plot was
surrounded by woods in the distance.

She took his hand again, and they walked to a tree beside a wooden
shed that, for some reason, was in much better condition than the house.
"This was my tree," she said, looking up at the branches. "My own
pecan tree." Her voice had a slight quiver.

"It's a great tree."

"Wonderful for cHmbing. I'd spend hours here, sitting in those
branches, swinging my feet and resting my chin on a Hmb. In the spring
and summer, I'd cUmb about halfway up, and no one could see me. I
had my own little world up there."

She suddenly closed her eyes and covered her mouth with a hand. Her
shoulders trembled. Adam placed his arm around her and tried to think
of something to say.

"This is where it happened," she said after a moment. She bit her lip
and fought back tears. Adam said nothing.

"You asked me once about a story," she said with clenched teeth as
she wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. "The story of Daddy
killing a black man." She nodded toward the house. Her hands shook so
she stuck them in her pockets.

A minute passed as they stared at the house, neither wanting to speak.
The only rear door opened onto a small, square porch with a raiHng
around it. A delicate breeze ruffled the leaves above them and made the
only sound.

She took a deep breath, then said, "His name was Joe Lincoln, and he
lived down the road there with his family." She nodded at the remnants
of a dirt trail that ran along the edge of a field then disappeared into the
woods. "He had about a dozen kids."

"Quince Lincoln?" Adam asked.

"Yeah. Ho^v'd you know about him?"

"Sam mentioned his name the other day when we were talking about
Eddie. He said Quince and Eddie were good firiends when they were
kids."

"He didn't talk about Quince's father, did he?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. Joe worked here on the farm for us, and his family

THE CHAMBER 255

lived in a shotgun house that we also owned. He was a good man with a
big family, and like most poor blacks back then they just barely survived.
I knew a couple of his kids, but we weren't friends like Quince and
Eddie. One day the boys were playing here in the backyard, it was
summertime and we weren't in school. They got into an argument over
a small toy, a Confederate Army soldier, and Eddie accused Quince of
stealing it. Typical boy stuff, you know. I think they were eight or nine
years old. Daddy happened to walk by, over there, and Eddie ran to him
and told how Quince had stolen the toy. Quince emphatically denied it.
Both boys were reaUy mad and on the verge of tears. Sam, typically, flew
into a rage and cursed Quince, calling him all sorts of names like 'thiev-
ing little nigger' and 'sorry Uttle nigger bastard.' Sam demanded the
soldier, and Quince started crying. He kept saying he didn't have it, and
Eddie kept saying he did. Sam grabbed the boy, shook him real hard, and
started slapping him on the butt. Sam was yelling and screaming and
cursing, and Quince was crying and pleading. They went around the
yard a few times with Sam shaking him and hitting him. Quince finally
puUed free, and ran home. Eddie ran into our house, and Daddy fol-
lowed him inside. A moment later, Sam stepped through the door there,
with a walking cane, which he carefully laid on the porch. He then sat
on the steps and waited patiently. He smoked a cigarette and watched
the dirt road. The Lincoln house was not far away, and, sure enough,
within a few minutes Joe came running out of the trees there with
Quince right behind him. As he got close to the house, he saw Daddy
waiting on him, and he slowed to a walk. Daddy yelled over his shoul-
der, 'Eddie! Come here! Watch me whip this nigger!' "

She began walking very slowly to the house, then stopped a few feet
from the porch. "When Joe was right about here, he stopped and looked
at Sam. He said something Hke, 'Quince says you hit him, Mr. Sam.' To
which my father replied something hke, 'Quince is a thieving little nig-
ger, Joe. You should teach your kids not to steal.' They began to argue,
and it was obvious there was going to be a fight. Sam suddenly jumped
from the porch, and threw the first punch. They fell to the ground, right
about here, and fought like cats. Joe was a few years younger and
stronger, but Daddy was so mean and angry that the fight was pretty
even. They struck each other in the face and cursed and kicked like a
couple of animals." She stopped the narrative and looked around the
yard, then she pointed to the back door. "At some point, Eddie stepped
onto the porch to watch it. Quince was standing a few feet away, yelling
at his father. Sam made a dash for the porch and grabbed the walking
cane, and the matter got out of hand. He beat Joe in the face and head
until he fell to his knees, and he poked him in the stomach and groin

256 JOHN GRISHAM

until he could barely move. Joe looked at Quince and yeUed for him to
run get the shotgun. Quince took off. Sam stopped the beating, and
turned to Eddie. 'Go get my shotgun,' he said. Eddie froze, and Daddy
yelled at him again. Joe was on the ground, on aU fours, trying to collect
himself, and just as he was about to stand, Sam beat him again and
knocked him down. Eddie went inside and Sam walked to the porch.
Eddie returned in a matter of seconds with a shotgun, and Daddy made
him go inside. The door closed."

Lee walked to the porch and sat on the edge of it. She buried her face
in her hands, and cried for a long time. Adam stood a few feet away,
staring at the ground, listening to the sobs. When she finally looked at
him, her eyes were glazed, her mascara was running, her nose dripped.
She wiped her face with her hands, then rubbed them on her jeans. "I'm
sorry," she whispered.

"Finish it, please," he said quickly.

She breathed deeply for a moment, then wiped her eyes some more.
"Joe was just over there," she said, pointing to a spot in the grass not far
from Adam. "He'd made it to his feet, and he turned and saw Daddy
with the gun. He glanced around in the direction of his house, but there
was no sign of Quince and his gun. He turned back to Daddy, who was
standing right here, on the edge of the porch. Then my dear sweet father
slowly raised the gun, hesitated for a second, looked around to see if
anyone was watching, and puUed the trigger. Just like that. Joe fell hard
and never moved."

"You saw this happen, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Where were you?"

"Over there," she nodded, but didn't point. "In my pecan tree. Hid-
den from the world."

"Sam couldn't see you?"

"No one could see me. I watched the whole thing." She covered her
eyes again and fought back tears. Adam eased onto the porch and sat
beside her.

She cleared her throat and looked away. "He watched Joe for a min-
ute, ready to shoot again if necessary. But Joe never moved. He was
quite dead. There was some blood around his head on the grass, and I
could see it from the tree. I remember digging my fingernails into the
bark to keep from falling, and I remember wanting to cry but being too
scared. I didn't want him to hear me. Quince appeared after a few
minutes. He'd heard the shot, and he was crying by the time I saw him.
Just running like crazy and crying, and when he saw his father on the
ground he started screaming Hke any child would' ve done. My father

THE CHAMBER 257

raised the gun again, and for a second I knew he was about to shoot the
boy. But Quince threw Joe's shotgun to the ground and ran to his father.
He was bawhng and waihng. He wore a Hght-colored shirt, and soon it
was covered with blood. Sam eased to the side and picked up Joe's
shotgun, then he went inside with both guns."

She stood slowly and took several measured steps. "Quince and Joe
were right about here," she said, marking the spot with her heel.
"Quince held his father's head next to his stomach, blood was every-
where, and he made this strange moaning sound, like the whimper of a
dying animal." She turned and looked at her tree. "And there I was,
sitting up there Uke a Httle bird, crying too. I hated my father so badly at
that moment."

"Where was Eddie?"

"Inside the house, in his room with the door locked." She pointed to
a window with broken panes and a shutter missing. "That was his room.
He told me later that he looked outside when he heard the shot, and he
saw Quince clutching his father. Within minutes. Ruby Lincoln came
running up with a string of children behind her. They all collapsed
around Quince and Joe, and, God, it was horrible. They were screaming
and weeping and yelling at Joe to get up, to please not die on them.

"Sam went inside and called an ambulance. He also called one of his
brothers, Albert, and a couple of neighbors. Pretty soon there was a
crowd in the backyard. Sam and his gang stood on the porch with their
guns and watched the mourners, who dragged the body under that tree
over there." She pointed to a large oak. "The ambulance arrived after an
eternity, and took the body away. Ruby and her children walked back to
their house, and my father and his buddies had a good laugh on the
porch."

"How long did you stay in the tree?"

"I don't know. As soon as everybody was gone, I climbed down and
ran into the woods. Eddie and I had a favorite place down by a creek,
and I knew he would come looking for me. He did. He was scared and
out of breath; told me aU about the shooting, and I told him that I'd seen
it. He didn't believe me at first, but I gave him the details. We were both
scared to death. He reached in his pocket and pulled out something. It
was the little Confederate soldier he and Quince had fought over. He'd
found it under his bed, and so he decided on the spot that everything
was his fault. We swore each other to secrecy. He promised he would
never tell anyone that I had witnessed the killing, and I promised I would
never tell anyone that he'd found the soldier. He threw it in the creek."

"Did either of you ever tell?"

She shook her head for a long time.

258 JOHN GRISHAM

"Sam never knew you were in the tree?" Adam asked.

"Nope. I never told my mother. Eddie and I talked about it occasion-
ally over the years, and as time passed we just sort of buried it away.
When we returned to the house, our parents were in the middle of a
huge fight. She was hysterical and he was wild-eyed and crazy. I think
he'd hit her a few times. She grabbed us and told us to get in the car. As
we were backing out of the driveway, the sheriff pulled up. We drove
around for a while. Mother in the front seat, and Eddie and I in the
back, both of us too scared to talk. She didn't know what to say. We
assumed he would be taken to jail, but when we parked in the driveway
he was sitting on the front porch as if nothing had happened."

"What did the sheriff do?"

"Nothing, really. He and Sam talked for a bit. Sam showed him Joe's
shotgun and explained how it was a simple matter of self-defense. Just
another dead nigger."

"He wasn't arrested?"

"No, Adam. This was Mississippi in the early fifties. I'm sure the
sheriff had a good laugh about it, patted Sam on the back, and told him
to be a good boy, and then left. He even allowed Sam to keep Joe's
shotgun."

"That's incredible."

"We were hoping he'd go to jail for a few years."

"What did the Lincolns do?"

"What could they do? Who would Hsten to them? Sam forbade Eddie
from seeing Quince, and to make sure the boys didn't get together, he
evicted them from their house."

"Good God!"

"He gave them one week to get out, and the sheriff arrived to fulfill
his sworn duties by forcing them out of the house. The eviction was
legal and proper, Sam assured Mother. It was the only time I thought she
might leave him. I wish she had."

"Did Eddie ever see Quince?"

"Years later. When Eddie started driving, he started looking for the
Lincolns. They had moved to a small community on the other side of
Clanton, and Eddie found them there. He apologized and said he was
sorry a hundred times. But they were never friends again. Ruby asked
him to leave. He told me they lived in a run-down shack with no
electricity."

She walked to her pecan tree and sat against its trunk. Adam followed
and leaned against it. He looked down at her, and thought of all the
years she'd been carrying this burden. And he thought of his father, of
his anguish and torment, of the indelible scars he'd borne to his death.

THE CHAMBER 259

Adam now had the first clue to his father's destruction, and he wondered
if the pieces might someday fit together. He thought of Sam, and as he
glanced at the porch he could see a younger man with a gun and hatred
in his face. Lee was sobbing quietly.

"What did Sam do afterward?"

She struggled to control herself. "The house was so quiet for a week,
maybe a month, I don't know. But it seemed like years before anyone
spoke over dinner. Eddie stayed in his room with the door locked. I
would hear him crying at night, and he told me again and again how
much he hated his father. He wanted him dead. He wanted to run away
from home. He blamed himself for everything. Mother became con-
cerned, and she spent a lot of time with him. As for me, they thought I
was off playing in the woods when it happened. Shortly after Phelps and
I married, I secretly began seeing a psychiatrist. I tried to work it out in
therapy, and I wanted Eddie to do the same. But he wouldn't listen. The
last time I talked to Eddie before he died, he mentioned the killing. He
never got over it."

"And you got over it?"

"I didn't say that. Therapy helped, but I still wonder what would' ve
happened if I had screamed at Daddy before he pulled the trigger.
Would he have killed Joe with his daughter watching? I don't think so."

"Come on, Lee. That was forty years ago. You can't blame yourself."

"Eddie blamed me. And he blamed himself, and we blamed each
other until we were grown. We were children when it happened, and we
couldn't run to our parents. We were helpless."

Adam could think of a hundred questions about the killing of Joe
Lincoln. The subject was not Hkely to be raised again with Lee, and he
wanted to know everything that happened, every small detail. Where
was Joe buried? What happened to his shotgun? Was the shooting re-
ported in the local paper? Was the case presented to a grand jury? Did
Sam ever mention it to his children? Where was her mother during the
fight? Did she hear the argument and the gunshot? What happened to
Joe's family? Did they still live in Ford County?

"Let's burn it, Adam," she said strongly, wiping her face and glaring
at him.

"You're not serious."

"Yes I am! Let's burn the whole damned place, the house, the shed,
this tree, the grass and weeds. It won't take much. Just a couple of
matches here and there. Come on."

"No, Lee."

"Come on."

260 JOHN GRISHAM

Adam bent over gently and took her by the arm. "Let's go, Lee. I've
heard enough for one day."

She didn't resist. She too had had enough for one day. He helped her
through the weeds, around the house, over the ruins of the driveway,
and back to the car.

They left the CayhaU estate without a word. The road turned to
gravel, then stopped at the intersection of a highway. Lee pointed to the
left, then closed her eyes as if trying to nap. They bypassed Clanton and
stopped at a country store near HoUy Springs. Lee said she needed a
cola, and insisted on getting it herself. She returned to the car with a six-
pack of beer and offered a bottle to Adam. "What's this?" he asked.

"Just a couple," she said. "My nerves are shot. Don't let me drink
more than two, okay. Only two."

"I don't think you should, Lee."

"I'm okay," she insisted with a frown, and took a drink.

Adam decUned and sped away from the store. She drained two bottles
in fifteen minutes, then went to sleep. Adam placed the sack in the
backseat, and concentrated on the road.

He had a sudden desire to leave Mississippi, and longed for the Hghts
of Memphis.

TWENTY-SEVEN

EXACTLY ONE WEEK earlier, he had awakened with a fierce
headache and a fragile stomach, and had been forced to face the
greasy bacon and oily eggs of Irene Lettner. And in the past seven
days, he'd been to the courtroom of Judge Slattery, and to Chicago,
Greenville, Ford County, and Parchman. He'd met the governor, and
the Attorney General. He hadn't talked to his client in six days.

To hell with his cHent. Adam had sat on the patio watching the river
traffic and sipping decaffeinated coffee until 2 a.m. He swatted mos-
quitoes and struggled with the vivid images of Quince Lincoln grasping
at his father's body while Sam Cayhall stood on the porch and admired
his handiwork. He could hear the muted laughter of Sam and his bud-
dies on the narrow porch as Ruby Lincoln and her children fell around
the corpse and eventually dragged it across the yard to the shade of a tree.
He could see Sam on the front lawn with both shotguns explaining to
the sheriff exactly how the crazy nigger was about to kiU him, and how
he acted reasonably and in self-defense. The sheriff was quick to see
Sam's point, of course. He could hear the whispers of the tormented
children, Eddie and Lee, as they blamed themselves and struggled with
the horror of Sam's deed. And he cursed a society so willing to ignore
violence against a despised class.

He'd slept fitfully, and at one point had sat on the edge of his bed and
declared to himself that Sam could find another lawyer, that the death
penalty might in fact be appropriate for some people, notably his grand-
father, and that he would return to Chicago immediately and change his
name again. But that dream passed, and when he awoke for the last time

262 JOHN GRISHAM

the sunlight filtered through the blinds and cast neat lines across his bed.
He contemplated the ceiling and crown molding along the walls for half
an hour as he remembered the trip to Clanton. Today, he hoped, would
be a late Sunday with a thick newspaper and strong coffee. He would go
to the office later in the afternoon. His cHent had seventeen days.

Lee had finished a third beer after they arrived at the condo, then
she'd gone to bed. Adam had watched her carefuUy, half-expecting a
wild binge or sudden sHde into an alcoholic stupor. But she'd been very
quiet and composed, and he heard nothing ffom her during the night.

He finished his shower, didn't shave, and walked to the kitchen where
the syrupy remains of the first pot of coffee awaited him. Lee had been
up for some time. He called her name, then walked to her bedroom. He
quickly checked the patio, then roamed through the condo. She was
not there. The Sunday paper was stacked neatly on the coffee table in
the den.

He fixed fresh coffee and toast, and took his breakfast on the patio. It
was almost nine-thirty, and thankfully the sky was cloudy and the tem-
perature was not suffocating. It would be a good Sunday for office work.
He read the paper, starting with the front section.

Perhaps she'd run to the store or something. Maybe she'd gone to
church. They hadn't yet reached the point of leaving notes for each
other. But there'd been no talk of Lee going anywhere this morning.

He'd eaten one piece of toast with strawberry jam when his appetite
suddenly vanished. The front page of the Metro section carried another
story on Sam CayhaU, with the same picture from ten years ago. It was a
chatty Httle summary of the past week's developments, complete with a
chronological chart giving the important dates in the history of the case.
A cute question mark was left dangHng by the date of August 8, 1990.
Would there be an execution then? Evidently, Todd Marks had been
given unhmited column inches by the editors because the story con-
tained almost nothing new. The disturbing part was a few quotes from a
law professor at Ole Miss, an expert in constitutional matters who'd
worked on many death penalty cases. The learned professor was gener-
ous with his opinions, and his bottom Une was that Sam's goose was
pretty much cooked. He'd studied the file at length, had followed it for
many years in fact, and was of the opinion that there was basically noth-
ing left for Sam to do. He explained that in many death penalty cases,
miracles can sometimes be performed at the last moment because usually
the inmate has suffered from mediocre legal representation, even during
his appeals. In those cases, experts such as himself can often puU rabbits
out of hats because they're just so damned brilliant, and thus able to
create issues ignored by lesser legal minds. But, regrettably, Sam's case

THE CHAMBER 263

was different because he had been competendy represented by some very
fine lawyers from Chicago.

Sam's appeals had been handled skillfully, and now the appeals had
run their course. The professor, evidently a gambling man, gave five to
one odds the execution would take place on August 8. And for all of
this, the opinions and the odds, he got his picture in the paper.

Adam was suddenly nervous. He'd read dozens of death cases in
which lawyers at the last minute grabbed ropes they'd never grabbed
before, and convinced judges to listen to new arguments. The lore of
capital litigation was full of stories about latent legal issues undiscovered
and untapped until a different lawyer with a fresh eye entered the arena
and captured a stay. But the law professor was right. Sam had been
lucky. Though Sam despised the lawyers at Kravitz & Bane, they had
provided superb representation. Now there was nothing left but a bunch
of desperate motions, the gangplank appeals, as they were known.

He flung the paper on the wooden deck and went inside for more
coffee. The sliding door beeped, a new sound from a new security
system installed last Friday after the old one malfunctioned and some
keys mysteriously disappeared. There was no evidence of a break-in.
Security was tight at the complex. And Willis didn't really know how
many sets of keys he kept for each unit. The Memphis police decided
the sliding door had been left unlocked and slipped open somehow.
Adam and Lee had not worried about it.

He inadvertently struck a glass tumbler next to the sink, and it shat-
tered as it hit the floor. Bits of glass bounced around his bare feet, and he
tiptoed gingerly to the pantry to get a broom and dustpan. He carefully
swept the debris, without bloodshed, into a neat pile and dumped it into
a wastebasket under the sink. Something caught his attention. He slowly
reached into the black plastic garbage bag, and felt his way through
warm coffee grounds and broken glass until he found a bottle and pulled
it out. It was an empty pint of vodka.

He raked the coffee grounds from it and studied the label. The trash
basket was small and normally emptied every other day, sometimes once
a day. It was now half-filled. The bottle had not been there long. He
opened the refrigerator and looked for the remaining three bottles of
beer from yesterday's six-pack. She'd had two en route back to Mem-
phis, then one at the condo. He did not remember where they had been
stored, but they were not in the refrigerator. Nor in the trash in the
kitchen, den, bathrooms, or bedrooms. The more he searched the more
determined he became to find the bottles. He inspected the pantry, the
broom closet, the linen closet, the kitchen cabinets. He went through

264 JOHN GRISHAM

her closets and drawers, and felt like a thief and a cheat but pressed on
because he was scared.

They were under her bed, empty of course, and carefuUy hidden in an
old Nike shoe box. Three empty bottles of Heineken stacked neatly
together, as if they were to be shipped somewhere as a gift. He sat on the
floor and examined them. They were fresh, with a few drops still roUing
around the bottoms.

He guessed her weight to be around a hundred and thirty pounds, and
her height at five feet six or seven. She was slender but not too thin. Her
body couldn't handle much booze. She'd gone to bed early, around
nine, then at some point sneaked around the condo fetching beer and
vodka. Adam leaned against the wall, his mind racing wildly. She'd given
much thought to the hiding of the green bottles, but she knew she'd get
caught. She had to know Adam would look for them later. Why hadn't
she been more careful with the empty pint bottle? Why was it hidden in
the trash, and the beer bottles tucked away under her bed?

Then he realized he was attempting to track a rational mind, instead
of a drunk one. He closed his eyes and tapped the back of his head
against the wall. He'd taken her to Ford County, where they looked at
graves and relived a nightmare, and where she'd worn sunglasses to hide
her face. For two weeks now, he'd been demanding family secrets and
yesterday he'd been kicked in the face with a few. He needed to know,
he'd told himself He wasn't certain why, but he just felt as if he had to
know the reasons his family was strange and violent and hateful.

And now, it occurred to him for the first time, perhaps this was much
more compHcated than the casual telling of family stories. Perhaps this
was painful for everyone involved. Maybe his selfish interest in closeted
skeletons wasn't as important as Lee's stability.

He sUd the shoe box back to its original position, then threw the
vodka bottle in the wastebasket for the second time. He dressed quickly
and left the building. He asked the gate man about Lee. According to a
sheet of paper on his cUpboard, she'd left almost two hours ago, at eight-
ten.

IT WAS CUSTOMARY for lawyers at Kravitz & Bane in Chicago to
spend Sunday at the office, but evidently the practice was frowned upon
in Memphis. Adam had the place entirely to himself He locked his door
anyway, and was soon lost in the murky legal world of federal habeas
corpus practice.

His concentration, though, was difficult and only lasted for short in-
tervals. He worried about Lee, and he hated Sam. It would be difficult
to look at him again, probably tomorrow, through the metal screen at

THE CHAMBER 265

the Row. He was frail and bleached and wrinkled, and by all rights
entitled to a little sympathy from someone. Their last discussion had
been about Eddie, and when it ended Sam had asked him to leave the
family stuff outside the Row. He had enough on his mind at the mo-
ment. It wasn't fair to confront a condemned man with his ancient sins.

Adam was not a biographer, nor a genealogist. He hadn't been trained
in sociology or psychiatry, and, frankly, he was, at the moment, quite
weary of further expeditions into the cryptic history of the Cayhall
family. He was simply a lawyer, a rather green one, but an advocate
nonetheless whose client needed him.

It was time to practice law and forget the folklore.

At eleven-thirty, he dialed Lee's number and listened to the phone
ring. He left a message on the recorder, telling her where he was and
would she please caU. He called again at one, and at two. No answer. He
was preparing an appeal when the phone rang.

Instead of Lee's pleasant voice, he heard the clipped words of the
Honorable F. Flynn Slattery. "Yes, Mr. Hall, Judge Slattery here. I've
carefuUy considered this matter, and I'm denying all relief, including
your request for a stay of execution," he said, almost with a trace of
cheer. "Lots of reasons, but we won't go into them. My clerk will fax
you my opinion right now, so you'll have it in a moment."

"Yes sir," Adam said.

"You'U need to appeal as soon as possible, you know. I suggest you do
so in the morning."

"I'm working on the appeal now, Your Honor. In fact, it's almost
finished. "

"Good. So you were expecting this."

"Yes sir. I started working on the appeal right after I left your office
on Tuesday." It was tempting to take a shot or two at Slattery. He was,
after all, two hundred miles away. But he was also, after aU, a federal
judge. Adam was very aware that one day very soon he might need His
Honor again.

"Good day, Mr. Hall." And with that, Slattery hung up.

Adam walked around the table a dozen times, then watched the light
rain on the Mall below. He swore quietly about federal judges in general
and Slattery in particular, then returned to his computer where he stared
at the screen and waited for inspiration.

He typed and read, researched and printed, looked from his windows
and dreamed of miracles until it was dark. He had killed several hours
with footless piddling, and one reason he worked until eight o'clock was
to give Lee plenty of time to return to the condo.

There was no sign of her. The security guard said she had not re-

266 JOHN GRISHAM

turned. There was no message on the recorder, other than his. He dined
on microwave popcorn, and watched two movies on video. The idea of
calling Phelps Booth was so repugnant he nearly shuddered at the
thought.

He thought of sleeping on the sofa in the den so he would hear her if
she came home, but after the last movie he retired to his room upstairs
and closed the door.

TWENTY-EIGHT

THE EXPLANATION for yesterday's disappearance was slow in
coming, but sounded plausible by the time she finished with it.
She'd been at the hospital all day, she said as she moved slowly
around the kitchen, with one of her kids from the Auburn House. Poor
little girl was only thirteen, baby number one but of course there would
be others, and she had gone into labor a month early. Her mother was in
jail and her aunt was off selling drugs, and she had no one else to turn to.
Lee'd held her hand throughout the complicated delivery. The girl was
fine and the baby was okay, and now there was another unwanted little
child in the Memphis ghettos.

Lee's voice was scratchy and her eyes were puffy and red. She said
she'd returned a few minutes after one, and she would've called earlier
but they were in the labor room for six hours and the delivery room for
two. St. Peter's Charity Hospital is a zoo, especiaUy the maternity wing,
and, well, she just couldn't get to a phone.

Adam sat in his pajamas at the table, sipping coffee and studying the
paper as she talked. He hadn't asked for the explanation. He tried his
best to act unconcerned about her. She insisted on cooking breakfast:
scrambled eggs and canned biscuits. And she was doing a good job of
busying herself in the kitchen as she talked and avoided eye contact.

"What's the kid's name?" he asked seriously as if he was deeply con-
cerned with Lee's story.

"Uh, Natasha. Natasha Perkins."

"And she's only thirteen?"

268 JOHN GRISHAM

"Yes. Her mother is twenty-nine. Can you believe it? A twenty-nine-
year-old grandmother."

Adam shook his head in disbelief. He happened to be looking at the
smaU section of the Memphis Press where it registered the county's vital
records. Marriage Licenses. Divorce petitions. Births. Arrests. Deaths. He
scanned the Hst of yesterday's births as if he were checking scores, and
found no record of a new mother named Natasha Perkins.

Lee finished her struggle with the canned biscuits. She placed them
on a smaU platter along with the eggs and served them, then sat at the
other end of the table, as far away firom Adam as possible. "Bon appetit"
she said with a forced smile. Her cooking was already a rich source of
humor.

Adam smiled as if everything was fme. They needed humor at this
moment, but wit failed them. "Cubs lost again," he said, taking a bite of
eggs and glancing at the folded newspaper.

"The Cubs always lose, don't they?"

"Not always. You foUow baseball?"

"I hate baseball. Phelps turned me against every sport known to
man."

Adam grinned and read the paper. They ate without talking for a few
minutes, and the silence gre\v heavy. Lee punched the remote and the
television on the counter came on and created noise. They were both
suddenly interested in the weather, which was again hot and dry. She
played with her food, nibbHng on a half-baked biscuit and pushing the
eggs around her plate. Adam suspected her stomach ^vas feeble at the
moment.

He finished quickly and took his plate to the kitchen sink. He sat
again at the table to finish the paper. She was staring at the television,
anything to keep her eyes away firom her nephew.

"I'U probably go see Sam today," he said. "I haven't been in a week."

Her gaze fell to a spot somewhere in the middle of the table. "I wish
we hadn't gone to Clanton Saturday," she said.

"I know."

"It ^vas not a good idea."

"I'm sorry, Lee. I insisted on going, and it was not a good idea. I've
insisted on a lot of things, and maybe I've been wrong."

"It's not fair — "

"I know it's not fair. I reaHze now that it's not a simple matter of
learning family history."

"It's not fair to him, Adam. It's almost cruel to confront him with
these things when he has only two weeks to live."

"You're right. And it's wrong to make you reHve them."

THE CHAMBER 269

"I'll be fine." She said this as if she certainly wasn't fine now, but
there might be a bit of hope for the future.

"I'm sorry, Lee. I'm truly sorry."

"It's okay. What will you and Sam do today?"

"Talk, primarily. The local federal court ruled against us yesterday,
and so we'll appeal this morning. Sam likes to talk legal strategies."

"Tell him I'm thinking about him."

"I will."

She pushed her plate away and cuddled her cup with both hands.
"And ask him if he wants me to come see him."

"Do you really want to?" Adam asked, unable to conceal his surprise.

"Something tells me I should. I haven't seen him in many years."

"I'll ask him."

"And don't mention Joe Lincoln, okay Adam? I never told Daddy
what I saw."

"You and Sam never mentioned the kiUing?"

"Never. It became well known in the community. Eddie and 1 grew
up with it and carried it as a burden, but, to be honest, Adam, it was not
a big deal to the neighbors. My father killed a black man. It was 1950,
and it was Mississippi. It was never discussed in our house."

"So Sam makes it to his grave without being confronted with the
killing?"

"What do you accomplish by confronting him? It was forty years
ago."

"I don't know. Maybe he'll say he was sorry."

"To you? He apologizes to you, and that makes everything okay?
Come on, Adam, you're young and you don't understand. Leave it
alone. Don't hurt the old man anymore. Right now, you're the only
bright spot in his pathetic hfe."

"Okay, okay."

"You have no right to ambush hiin with the story of Joe Lincoln."

"You're right. I won't. I promise."

She stared at him with bloodshot eyes until he looked at the television,
then she quickly excused herself and disappeared through the den. Adam
heard the bathroom door close and lock. He eased across the carpet and
stood in the hallway, listening as she heaved and vomited. The toilet
flushed, and he ran upstairs to his room to shower and change.

BY 10 A.M., Adam had perfected the appeal to the Fifth Circuit Court
of Appeals in New Orleans. Judge Slattery had already faxed a copy of
his order to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit, and Adam faxed his appeal

270 JOHN GRISHAM

shortly after arriving at the office. He Fed-Exed the original by over-
night.

He also had his first conversation with the Death Clerk, a full-time
employee of the United States Supreme Court who does nothing but
monitor the final appeals of all death row inmates. The Death Clerk
often works around the clock as executions go down to the wire.
E. Garner Goodman had briefed Adam on the machinations of the
Death Clerk and his office, and it was with some reluctance that Adam
placed the first caU.

The clerk's name was Richard Olander, a rather efficient sort who
sounded quite tired early Monday morning. "We've been expecting
this," he said to Adam, as if the damned thing should' ve been filed some
time ago. He asked Adam if this was his first execution.

"Afraid so," Adam said. "And I hope it's my last."

"Well, you've certainly picked a loser," Mr. Olander said, then ex-
plained in tedious detail exactly how the Court expected the final ap-
peals to be handled. Every filing from this point forward, until the end,
regardless of where it's filed or what it's about, must also simultaneously
be filed with his office, he stated flatly as if reading from a textbook. In
fact, he would immediately fax to Adam a copy of the Court's rules, aU
of which had to be meticulously foUowed up until the very end. His
office was on caU, around the clock, he repeated more than once, and it
was essential that they receive copies of everything. That was, of course,
if Adam wanted his client to have a fair hearing with the Court. If Adam
didn't care, then, well, just foUow the rules haphazardly and his cUent
would pay for it.

Adam promised to foUow the rules. The Supreme Court had become
increasingly weary of the endless claims in death cases, and wanted to
have aU motions and appeals in hand to expedite matters. Adam's appeal
to the Fifth Circuit would be scrutinized by the justices and their clerks
long before the Court actually received the case firom New Orleans. The
same would be true for all his eleventh-hour fiHngs. The Court would
then be able to grant immediate relief, or deny it quickly.

So efficient and speedy was the Death Clerk that the Court had
recently been embarrassed by denying an appeal before it was actually
filed.

Then Mr. Olander explained that his office had a checklist of every
conceivable last minute appeal and motion, and he and his quite able staff
monitored each case to see if aU possible fiHngs took place. And if a
lawyer somewhere missed a potential issue, then they would actually
notify the lawyer that he should pursue the forgotten claim. Did Adam
desire a copy of their checklist?

THECHAMBER 271

No, Adam explained that he already had a copy. E. Garner Goodman
had written the book on gangplank appeals.

Very well, said Mr. Olander. Mr. CayhaU had sixteen days, and, of
course, a lot can happen in sixteen days. But Mr. CayhaU had been ably
represented, in his humble opinion, and the matter had been thoroughly
litigated. He would be surprised, he ventured, if there were additional
delays.

Thanks for nothing, Adam thought.

Mr. Olander and his staff were watching a case in Texas very closely,
he explained. The execution was set for a day before Sam's, but, in his
opinion, there was a likely chance for a stay. Florida had one scheduled
for two days after Mr. CayhaU's. Georgia had two set for a week later,
but, well, who knows. He or someone on his staff would be available at
all hours, and he himself would personally be by the phone for the
twelve-hour period leading up to the execution.

Just call anytime, he said, and ended the conversation with a terse
promise to make things as easy as possible for Adam and his cUent.

Adam slammed the phone down and stalked around his office. His
door was locked, as usual, and the hallway was busy with eager Monday
morning gossip. His face had been in the paper again yesterday, and he
did not want to be seen. He caUed the Auburn House and asked for Lee
Booth, but she was not in. He called her condo, and there was no
answer. He called Parchman, and told the officer at the front gate to
expect him around one.

He went to his computer and found one of his current projects, a
condensed, chronological history of Sam's case.

THE LAKEHEAD COUNTY JURY convicted Sam on February 12,
1981, and two days later handed him a verdict of death. He appealed
directly to the Mississippi Supreme Court, claiming all sorts of griev-
ances with the trial and the prosecution but taking particular exception
to the fact that the trial occurred almost fourteen years after the bomb-
ing. His lawyer, Benjamin Keyes, argued vehemently that Sam was de-
nied a speedy trial, and that he was subjected to double jeopardy, being
tried three times for the same crime. Keyes presented a very strong
argument. The Mississippi Supreme Court was bitterly divided over
these issues, and on July 23, 1982, handed down a split decision af-
firming Sam's conviction. Five justices voted to affirm, three to reverse,
and one abstained.

Keyes then filed a petition for writ of certiorari with the U.S. Su-
preme Court, which, in effect, asked that Court to review Sam's case.
Since the Supreme Court "grants cert" on such a small number of cases.

272 JOHN GRISHAM

it was somewhat of a surprise when, on March 4, 1983, the Court
agreed to review Sam's conviction.

The U.S. Supreme Court split aknost as badly as Mississippi's on the
issue of double jeopardy, but nonetheless reached the same conclusion.
Sam's first two juries had been hopelessly deadlocked, hung up by the
shenanigans of Clovis Brazelton, and thus Sam was not protected by the
double jeopardy clause of the Fifth Amendment. He was not acquitted
by either of the first tw^o juries. Each had been unable to reach a verdict,
so reprosecution was quite constitutional. On September 21, 1983, the
U.S. Supreme Court ruled six to three that Sam's conviction should
stand. Keyes immediately filed some motions requesting a rehearing, but
to no avail.

Sam had hired Keyes to represent him during the trial and on appeal
to the Mississippi Supreme Court, if necessary. By the time the U.S.
Supreme Court affirmed the conviction, Keyes was working without
getting paid. His contract for legal representation had expired, and he
wrote Sam a long letter and explained that it was now time for Sam to
make other arrangements. Sam understood this.

Keyes also wrote a letter to an ACLU lawyer-friend of his in Washing-
ton, who in turn wrote a letter to his pal E. Garner Goodman at Kravitz
& Bane in Chicago. The letter landed on Goodman's desk at precisely
the right moment. Sam was running out of time and was desperate.
Goodman was looking for a pro bono project. They swapped letters, and
on December 18, 1983, Wallace Tyner, a partner in the white-coUar
criminal defense section of Kravitz & Bane, filed a petition seeking
postconviction relief with the Mississippi Supreme Court.

Tyner alleged many errors in Sam's trial, including the admission into
evidence of the gory pictures of the bodies of Josh and John Kramer. He
attacked the selection of the jury, and claimed that McAllister systemati-
cally picked blacks over whites. He claimed a fair trial was not possible
because the social environment was far different in 1981 than in 1967.
He maintained the venue selected by the trial judge was unfair. He raised
yet again the issues of double jeopardy and speedy trial. In all, Wallace
Tyner and Garner Goodman raised eight separate issues in the petition.
They did not, however, maintain that Sam had suffered because of inef-
fective trial counsel, the primary claim of all death row inmates. They
had wanted to, but Sam wouldn't allow it. He initially refused to sign the
petition because it attacked Benjamin Keyes, a lawyer Sam was fond of

On June 1, 1985, the Mississippi Supreme Court denied all of the
postconviction relief requested. Tyner again appealed to the U.S. Su-
preme Court, but cert was denied. He then filed Sam's first petition for
writ of habeas corpus and request for a stay of execution in federal court

THE CHAMBER 273

in Mississippi. Typically, the petition was quite thick, and contained
every issue already raised in state court.

Two years later, on May 3, 1987, the district court denied all relief,
and Tyner appealed to the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans, which in due
course affirmed the lower court's denial. On March 20, 1988, Tyner
filed a petition for a rehearing with the Fifth Circuit, which was also
denied. On September 3, 1988, Tyner and Goodman again trekked to
the Supreme Court and asked for cert. A week later, Sam wrote the first
of many letters to Goodman and Tyner threatening to fire them.

The U.S. Supreme Court granted Sam his last stay on May 14, 1989,
pursuant to a grant of certiorari being granted in a Florida case the
Court had decided to hear. Tyner argued successfully that the Florida
case raised similar issues, and the Supreme Court granted stays in several
dozen death cases around the country.

Nothing was filed in Sam's case while the Supreme Court delayed and
debated the Florida case. Sam, however, had begun his own efforts to rid
himself of Kravitz & Bane. He filed a few clumsy motions himself, all of
which were quickly denied. He did succeed, however, in obtaining an
order from the Fifth Circuit which effectively terminated the pro bono
services of his lawyers. On June 29, 1990, the Fifth Circuit allowed him
to represent himself, and Garner Goodman closed the file on Sam
Cayhall. It wasn't closed for long.

On July 9, 1990, the Supreme Court vacated Sam's stay. On July 10,
the Fifth Circuit vacated Sam's stay, and on the same day the Mississippi
Supreme Court set his execution date for August 8, four weeks away.

After nine years of appellate warfare, Sam now had sixteen days to
Uve.

TWENTY-NINE

THE ROW was quiet and still as another day dragged itself toward
noon. The diverse collection of fans buzzed and rattled in the
tiny cells, trying valiantly to push around air that grew stickier by
the moment.

The early television news had been filled with excited reports that
Sam Cayhall had lost his latest legal battle. Slattery's decision was
trumpeted around the state as if it were indeed the final nail in the coffin.
A Jackson station continued its countdown, only sixteen days to go. Day
Sixteen! it said in bold letters under the same old photo of Sam. Bright-
eyed reporters with heavy makeup and no knowledge of the law spouted
at the cameras with fearless predictions: "According to our sources, Sam
Cayhall's legal options are virtually gone. Many people believe that his
execution will take place, as scheduled, on August 8." Then on to sports
and weather.

There was much less talk on the Row, less yeUing back and forth,
fewer kites being floated along the cells. There was about to be an
execution.

Sergeant Packer smiled to himself as he shuffled along Tier A. The
bitching and griping that was so much a part of his daily work had
almost disappeared. Now, the inmates were concerned with appeals and
their lawyers. The most common request in the past two weeks had been
to use the phone to call a lawyer.

Packer did not look forward to another execution, but he did enjoy
the quiet. And he knew it was only temporary. If Sam got a stay tomor-
row, the noise would increase immediately.

THE CHAMBER 275

He stopped in front of Sam's cell. "Hour out, Sam."

Sam was sitting on his bed, typing and smoking as usual. "What time
is it?" he asked, placing the typewriter to his side and standing.

"Eleven."

Sam turned his back to Packer and stuck his wrists through the open-
ing in his door. Packer carefully cuffed them together. "You out by
yourself?" he asked.

Sam turned with his hands behind him. "No. Henshaw wants to
come out too."

"I'll get him," Packer said, nodding at Sam then nodding at the end of
the tier. The door opened, and Sam slowly foUowed him past the other
cells. Each inmate was leaning on the bars with hands and arms dangling
through, each watching Sam closely as he walked by.

They made their way through more bars and more hallways, and
Packer unlocked an unpainted metal door. It opened to the outside, and
the sunlight burst through. Sam hated this part of his hour out. He
stepped onto the grass and closed his eyes tightly as Packer uncuffed him,
then opened them slowly as they focused and adjusted to the painful
glow of the sun.

Packer disappeared inside without a word, and Sam stood in the same
spot for a full minute as lights flashed and his head pounded. The heat
didn't bother him because he lived with it, but the sunUght hit like lasers
and caused a severe headache each time he was allowed to venture from
the dungeon. He could easily afford a pair of cheap sunglasses, similar to
Packer's, but of course that would be too sensible. Sunglasses were not
on the approved list of items an inmate could own.

He walked unsteadily through the clipped grass, looking through the
fence to the cotton fields beyond. The recreation yard was nothing more
than a fenced-in plot of dirt and grass with two wooden benches and a
basketball hoop for the Africans. It was known to guards and prisoners
alike as the bullpen. Sam had stepped it off carefully a thousand times,
and had compared his measurements with those of other inmates. The
yard was fifty-one feet long and thirty-six feet wide. The fence was ten
feet taU and crowned with another eighteen inches of razor wire. Be-
yond the fence was a stretch of grass which ran a hundred feet or so to
the main fence, which was watched by the guards in the towers.

Sam walked in a straight line next to the fence, and when it stopped
he turned ninety degrees and continued his Httle routine, counting every
step along the way. Fifty-one feet by thirty-six. His cell was six by nine.
The law Hbrary, the Twig, was eighteen by fifteen. His side of the
visitors' room was six by thirty. He'd been told the Chamber Room was

276 JOHNGRISHAM

fifteen by twelve, and the chamber itself was a mere cube barely four feet
wide.

During the first year of his confinement, he had jogged around the
edges of the yard, trying to sweat and give his heart a workout. He'd also
tossed shots at the basketball hoop, but quit when he went days without
making one. He had eventually quit exercising, and for years had used
this hour to do nothing but enjoy the freedom from his cell. At one
time, he'd fallen into the habit of standing at the fence and staring past
the fields to the trees where he imagined all sorts of things. Freedom.
Highways. Fishing. Food. Sex occasionally. He could almost picture his
little farm in Ford County not far over there between two small patches
of woods. He would dream of Brazil or Argentina or some other laid-
back hiding place where he should be Hving with a new name.

And then he'd stopped the dreaming. He'd stopped gazing through
the fence as if a miracle would take him away. He walked and smoked,
almost always by himself. His most rigorous activity was a game of
checkers.

The door opened again, and Hank Henshaw walked through it.
Packer uncuffed him as he squinted furiously and looked at the ground.
He rubbed his wrists as soon as they were firee, then stretched his back
and legs. Packer walked to one of the benches and placed a worn card-
board box on it.

The two inmates watched Packer until he left the yard, then they
walked to the bench and assumed their positions astraddle the wooden
plank with the box between them. Sam carefully placed the checker-
board on the bench as Hensha^v counted the checkers.

"My turn to be red," Sam said.

"You were red last time," Henshaw said, staring at him.

"I was black last time."

"No, I was black last time. It's my turn to be red."

"Look, Hank. I've got sixteen days, and if I want to be red, then I get
to be red."

Henshaw shrugged and conceded. They arranged their checkers me-
ticulously.

"I guess you get the first move," Henshaw^ said.

"Of course." Sam sHd a checker to a vacant square, and the match was
on. The midday sun baked the ground around them and within minutes
their red jumpsuits stuck to their backs. They both wore rubber shower
shoes with no socks.

Hank Henshaw was forty-one, now a resident of the Row for seven
years but not expected to ever see the gas chamber. Two crucial errors

THE CHAMBER 277

had been made at trial, and Henshaw had a decent chance of getting
reversed and freed from the Row.

"Bad news yesterday," he said as Sam pondered the next move.

"Yes, things are lookin' pretty grim, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah. What does your lawyer say?" Neither of them looked up from
the checkerboard.

"He says we have a fightin' chance."

"What the hell does that mean?" Henshaw asked as he made a move.

"I think it means they're gonna gas me, but I'll go down swinging."

"Does the kid know what he's doing?"

"Oh yeah. He's sharp. Runs in the blood, you know."

"But he's aw^fully young."

"He's a smart kid. Great education. Number two in his law class at
Michigan, you know. Editor of the law review."

"What does that mean?"

"Means he's brilliant. He'll think of something."

"Are you serious, Sam? Do you think it's gonna happen?"

Sam suddenly jumped two black checkers, and Henshaw cursed.
"You're pitiful," Sam said with a grin. "When was the last time you beat
me?

"Two weeks ago."

"You liar. You haven't beat me in three years."

Henshaw made a tentative move, and Sam jumped him again. Five
minutes later, the game was over with Sam victorious again. They
cleared the board, and started over.

AT NOON, Packer and another guard appeared with handcuffs, and the
fun was over. They were led to their cells where lunch was in progress.
Beans, peas, mashed potatoes, and several slices of dry toast. Sam ate less
than a third of the bland food on his plate, and waited patiently for a
guard to come after him. He held a pair of clean boxer shorts and a bar
of soap. It was time to bathe.

The guard arrived and led Sam to a small shower at the end of the tier.
By court order, death row inmates were allowed five quick showers a
week, whether they needed them or not, as the guards Hked to say.

Sam showered quickly, washing his hair twice with the soap and
rinsing himself in the warm water. The shower itself was clean enough,
but used by all fourteen inmates on the tier. Thus, the rubber shower
shoes remained on the feet. After five minutes, the water stopped, and
Sam dripped for a few more minutes as he stared at the moldy tiled walls.
There were some things about the Row that he would not miss.

278 JOHNGRISHAM

Twenty minutes later, he was loaded into a prison van and driven a
half a mile to the law library.

Adam was waiting inside. He removed his coat and rolled up his
sleeves as the guards uncuffed Sam and left the room. They greeted each
other and shook hands. Sam quickly took a seat and Ut a cigarette.
"Where've you been?" he asked.

"Busy," Adam said, sitting across the table. "I had an unexpected trip
to Chicago last Wednesday and Thursday."

"Anything to do with me?"

"You could say that. Goodman wanted to review the case, and there
were a couple of other matters."

"So Goodman's still involved?"

"Goodman is my boss right now, Sam. I have to report to him if I
want to keep my job. I know you hate him, but he's very concerned
about you and your case. BeHeve it or not, he does not want to see you
gassed."

"I don't hate him anymore."

"Why the change of heart?"

"I don't know. When you get this close to death, you do a lot of
thinking."

Adam was anxious to hear more, but Sam let it pass. Adam watched
him smoke and tried not to think about Joe Lincoln. He tried not to
think of Sam's father being beaten in a drunken brawl at a funeral, and
he tried to ignore all the other miserable stories Lee had told him in Ford
County. He tried to block these things from his mind, but he couldn't.

He had promised her he would not mention any more nightmares
from the past. "I guess you've heard about our latest defeat," he said as
he pulled papers from his briefcase.

"It didn't take long, did it?"

"No. A rather quick loss, but I've already appealed to the Fifth Cir-
cuit."

"I've never w^on in the Fifth Circuit."

"I know. But we can't select our review court at this point."

"What can we do at this point?"

"Several things. I bumped into the governor last Tuesday after a meet-
ing with the federal judge. He wanted to talk in private. He gave me his
private phone numbers and invited me to call and talk about the case.
Said he had doubts about the extent of your guilt."

Sam glared at him. "Doubts? He's the only reason I'm here. He can't
w^ait to see me executed."

"You're probably right, but — "

THE CHAMBER 279

"You promised not to talk to him. You signed an agreement with me
expressly prohibiting any contact with that fool."

"Relax, Sam. He grabbed me outside the judge's oflfice."

"I'm surprised he didn't call a press conference to talk about it."

"I threatened him, okay. I made him promise not to talk."

"Then you're the first person in history to silence that bastard."

"He's open to the idea of clemency."

"He told you this?"

"Yes."

"Why? I don't believe it."

"I don't know why, Sam. And I don't really care. But how can it
hurt? What's the danger in requesting a clemency hearing? So he gets his
picture in the paper. So the TV cameras chase him around some more. If
there's a chance he'll Hsten, then why should you care if he gets some
mileage from it?"

"No. The answer is no. I will not authorize you to request a clemency
hearing. Hell no. A thousand times no. I know him, Adam. He's trying
to suck you into his game plan. It's all a sham, a show for the public.
He'U grieve over this until the very end, milking it for aU he can. He'll
get more attention than I will, and it's my execution."

"So what's the harm?"

Sam slapped the table with the palm of his hand. "Because it won't do
any good, Adam! He will not change his mind."

Adam scribbled something on a legal pad and let a moment pass. Sam
eased back in his seat, and lit another cigarette. His hair was still wet and
he combed it back with his fingernails.

Adam placed his pen on the table and looked at his client. "What do
you want to do, Sam? Quit? Throw in the toAvel? You think you know
so damned much law, tell me what you want to do."

"WeD, I've been thinking about it."

"I'm sure you have."

"The lawsuit on its way to the Fifth Circuit has merit, but it doesn't
look promising. There's not much left, as I see things."

"Except Benjamin Keyes."

"Right. Except Keyes. He did a fme job for me at trial and on appeal,
and he was almost a friend. I hate to go after him."

"It's standard in death cases, Sam. You always go after the trial lawyer
and claim ineffective assistance of counsel. Goodman told me he wanted
to do it, but you refused. It should' ve been done years ago."

"He's right about that. He begged me to do it, but I said no. I guess it
was a mistake."

Adam was on the edge of his seat taking notes. "I've studied the

280 JOHN GRISHAM

record, and I think Keyes made a mistake when he didn't put you on the
stand to testify."

"I wanted to talk to the jury, you know. I think I've already told you
that. After Dogan testified, I thought it was essential for me to explain to
the jury that I did in fact plant the bomb, but there was no intent to kill
anyone. That's the truth, Adam. I didn't intend to kill anyone."

"You wanted to testify, but your lawyer said no."

Sam smiled and looked at the floor. "Is that what you want me to

"2"

say?

"Yes."

"I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"No."

"Okay. That's the way it happened. I wanted to testify, but my lawyer
wouldn't allow it."

"I'U file first thing in the morning."

"It's too late, isn't it?"

"Well, it's certainly late, and this issue should've been raised a long
time ago. But what's there to lose?"

"WiU you call Keyes and tell him?"

"If I have time. I'm really not concerned with his feelings at the
moment."

"Then neither am I. To hell with him. Who else can we attack?"

"The list is rather short."

Sam jumped to his feet and began pacing along the table in measured
steps. The room was eighteen feet long. He walked around the table,
behind Adam, and along each of the four walls, counting as he went. He
stopped and leaned against a shelf of books.

Adam finished some notes and watched him carefuUy. "Lee wants to
know if she can come visit," he said.

Sam stared at him, then slowly returned to his seat across the table.
"She wants to?"

"I think so."

"I'U have to think about it."

"Well hurry."

"How's she doing?"

"Pretty fair, I guess. She sends her love and prayers, and she thinks
about you a lot these days."

"Do people in Memphis know she's my daughter?"

"I don't think so. It hasn't been in the papers yet."

"I hope they keep it quiet."

"She and I went to Clanton last Saturday."

THE CHAMBER 281

Sam looked at him sadly, then gazed at the ceiling. "What did you
see?" he asked.

"Lots of things. She showed me my grandmother's grave, and the plot
with the other Cayhalls."

"She didn't want to be buried with the Cayhalls, did Lee tell you
that?"

"Yes. Lee asked me where you wanted to be buried."

"I haven't decided yet."

"Sure. Just let me know when you make the decision. We walked
through the town, and she showed me the house we lived in. We went
to the square and sat in the gazebo on the courthouse lawn. The town
was very busy. People were packed around the square."

"We used to watch fireworks in the cemetery."

"Lee told me all about it. We ate lunch at The Tea Shoppe, and took a
drive in the country^ She took me to her childhood home."

"It's still there?"

"Yeah, it's abandoned. The house is run-down and the weeds have
taken over. We walked around the place. She told me lots of stories of
her childhood. Talked a lot about Eddie."

"Does she have fond memories?"

"Not really."

Sam crossed his arms and looked at the table. A minute passed without
a word. Finally, Sam asked, "Did she tell you about Eddie's little African
friend. Quince Lincoln?"

Adam nodded slowly, and their eyes locked together. "Yes, she did."

"And about his father, Joe?"

"She told me the story."

"Do you believe her?"

"I do. Should I?"

"It's true. It's all true."

"I thought so."

"How did you feel when she told you the story? I mean, how did you
react to it?"

"I hated your guts."

"And how do you feel now?"

"Different."

Sam slowly rose from his seat and walked to the end of the table where
he stopped and stood with his back to Adam. "That was forty years
ago," he mumbled, barely audible.

"I didn't come here to talk about it," Adam said, already feeling
guilty.

Sam turned and leaned on the same bookshelf He crossed his arms

282 JOHN GRISHAM

and stared at the wall. "I've wished a thousand times it hadn't hap-
pened."

"I promised Lee I w^ouldn't bring it up, Sam. I'm sorry."

"Joe Lincoln was a good man. I've often wondered what happened to
Ruby and Quince and the rest of the kids."

"Forget it, Sam. Let's talk about something else."

"I hope they're happy when I'm dead."

THIRTY

A S ADAM drove past the security station at the main gate the guard
A^ waved, as if by now he was a regular customer. He waved back as
-X- -A- he slowed and pushed a button to release his trunk. No paper-
work was required for visitors to leave, only a quick look in the trunk to
make sure no prisoners had caught a ride. He turned onto the highway,
heading south, away from Memphis, and calculated that this was his fifth
visit to Parchman. Five visits in two weeks. He had a suspicion that the
place would be his second home for the next sixteen days. What a rotten
thought.

He was not in the mood to deal with Lee tonight. He felt some
responsibility for her relapse into alcohol, but by her own admission this
had been a way of life for many years. She was an alcoholic, and if she
chose to drink there was nothing he could do to stop her. He would be
there tomorrow night, to make coffee and conversation. Tonight, he
needed a break.

It was mid-afternoon, the heat emanated from the asphalt highway,
the fields were dusty and dry, the farm implements languid and slow, the
traffic light and sluggish. Adam pulled to the shoulder and raised the
convertible top. He stopped at a Chinese grocery in Ruleville and
bought a can of iced tea, then sped along a lonely highway in the general
direction of Greenville. He had an errand to run, probably an unpleasant
one, but something he felt obligated to do. He hoped he had the cour-
age to go through with it.

He stayed on the back roads, the small paved county routes, and
zipped almost aimlessly across the Delta. He got lost twice, but worked

284 JOHN GRISHAM

himself out of it. He arrived in Greenville a fev^ minutes before five, and
cruised the downtown area in search of his target. He passed Kramer
Park twice. He found the synagogue, across the street fi:om the First
Baptist Church. He parked at the end of Main Street, at the river where
a levee guarded the city. He straightened his tie and walked three blocks
along Washington Street to an old brick building "with the sign Kramer
Wholesale hanging from a veranda above the sidewalk in front of it. The
heavy glass door opened to the inside, and the ancient wooden floors
squeaked as he walked on them. The firont part of the building had been
preserved to resemble an old-fashioned retail store, with glass counters in
front of wide shelves that ran to the ceiling. The shelves and counters
were filled with boxes and v^rappings of food products sold years ago, but
now extinct. An antique cash register was on display. The Httle museum
quickly yielded to modern commerce. The rest of the huge building was
renovated and gave the appearance of being quite efficient. A wall of
paned glass cut off the front foyer, and a wide carpeted hallway ran down
the center of the building and led, no doubt, to offices and secretaries,
and somewhere in the rear there had to be a "warehouse.

Adam admired the displays in the front counters. A young man in
jeans appeared from the back and asked, "Can I help you?"

Adam smiled, and was suddenly nervous. "Yes, I'd Hke to see Mr.
Elhot Kramer."

"Are you a salesman?"

"No."

"Are you a buyer?"

"No."

The young man was holding a pencil and had things on his mind.
"Then, may I ask what you need?"

"I need to see Mr. Elliot Kramer. Is he here?"

"He spends most of his time at the main "warehouse south of tO"wn."

Adam took three steps toward the guy and handed him a business
card. "My name is Adam Hall. I'm an attorney from Chicago. I reaUy
need to see Mr. Kramer."

He took the card and studied it for a few seconds, then he looked at
Adam with a great deal of suspicion. "Just a minute," he said, and
"walked away.

Adam leaned on a counter and admired the cash register. He had read
somewhere in his voluminous research that Marvin Kramer's family had
been prosperous merchants in the Delta for several generations. An an-
cestor had made a hasty exit from a steamboat at the port in Greenville,
and decided to call it home. He opened a small dry goods store, and one

THE CHAMBER 285

thing led to another. Throughout the ordeal of Sam's trials, the Kramer
family was repeatedly described as wealthy.

After twenty minutes of waiting, Adam was ready to leave, and quite
relieved. He'd made the effort. If Mr. Kramer didn't want to meet with
him, there was nothing he could do about it.

He heard footsteps on the wooden floor, and turned around. An
elderly gentleman stood with a business card in his hand. He was tall and
thin, w^ith wavy gray hair, dark brown eyes with heavy shadows under
them, a lean, strong face which at the moment was not smiling. He
stood erect, no cane to aid him, no eyeglasses to help him see. He
scowled at Adam, but said nothing.

For an instant, Adam wished he'd left five minutes ago. Then he asked
himself why he was there to begin with. Then he decided to go for it
anyway. "Good afternoon," he said, when it was obvious the gentleman
would not speak. "Mr. EUiot Kramer?"

Mr. Kramer nodded in the affirmative, but nodded ever so slowly as if
challenged by the question.

"My name is Adam Hall. I'm an attorney from Chicago. Sam Cayhall
is my grandfather, and I represent him." It was obvious Mr. Kramer had
already figured this out, because Adam's words didn't faze him. "I would
like to talk to you."

"Talk about what?" Mr. Kramer said in a slow drawl.

"About Sam."

"I hope he rots in hell," he said, as if he was already certain of Sam's
eternal destination. His eyes were so brown they were almost black.

Adam glanced at the floor, away from the eyes, and tried to think of
something noninflammatory. "Yes sir," he said, very much aware that he
was in the Deep South where politeness went a long way. "I understand
how you feel. I don't blame you, but I just wanted to talk to you for a
few minutes."

"Does Sam send his apologies?" Mr. Kramer asked. The fact that he
referred to him simply as Sam struck Adam as odd. Not Mr. Cayhall, not
Cayhall, just Sam, as if the two were old friends who'd been feuding and
now it was time to reconcile. Just say you're sorry, Sam, and everything's
fine.

The thought of a quick lie raced through Adam's mind. He could lay
it on thick, say how terrible Sam felt in these, his last days, and how he
desperately wanted forgiveness. But Adam couldn't bring himself to do
it. "Would it make any difference?" he asked.

Mr. Kramer carefully placed the card in his shirt pocket, and began
what would become a long stare past Adam and through the front win-
dow. "No," he said, "it wouldn't make any difference. It's something

286 JOHN GRISHAM

that should' ve been done long ago." His words were accented with the
heavy drip of the Delta, and even though their meanings were not
welcome, their sounds were very soothing. They were slow and
thoughtful, uttered as if time meant nothing. They also conveyed the
years of suffering, and the hint that life had ceased long ago.

"No, Mr. Kramer. Sam does not know I'm here, so he does not send
his apologies. But I do."

The gaze through the window and into the past did not flinch or
waver. But he was Hstening.

Adam continued, "I feel the obligation to at least say, for myself and
Sam's daughter, that w^e're terribly sorry for aU that's happened."

"Why didn't Sam say it years ago?"

"I can't answer that."

"I know. You're new."

Ah, the power of the press. Of course Mr. Kramer had been reading
the papers Hke everyone else.

"Yes sir. I'm trying to save his life."

"Why?"

"Many reasons. Killing him will not bring back your grandsons, nor
your son. He was 'wrong, but it's also wrong for the government to kiU
him."

"I see. And you think I've never heard this before?"

"No sir. I'm sure you've heard it aU. You've seen it aU. You've felt it
aU. I can't imagine what you've been through. I'm just trying to avoid it
myself."

"What else do you want?"

"Could you spare five minutes?"

"We've been talking for three minutes. You have two more." He
glanced at his watch as if to set a timer, then eased his long fmgers into
the pockets of his pants. His eyes returned to the window and the street
beyond it.

"The Memphis paper quoted you as saying you wanted to be there
when they strapped Sam CayhaU in the gas chamber; that you wanted to
look him in the eyes."

"That's an accurate quote. But I don't believe it'U ever happen."

"Why not?"

"Because we have a rotten criminal justice system. He's been coddled
and protected in prison for almost ten years now. His appeals go on and
on. You're fiHng appeals and puUing strings at this very moment to keep
him alive. The system is sick. We don't expect justice."

"I assure you he's not being coddled. Death row is a horrible place. I
just left it."

THE CHAMBER 287

"Yeah, but he's aHve. He's Hving and breathing and watching televi-
sion and reading books. He's talking to you. He's filing lawsuits. And
when and if death gets near, he'll have plenty of time to make plans for
it. He can say his good-byes. Say his prayers. My grandsons didn't have
time to say good-bye, Mr. Hall. They didn't get to hug their parents and
give them farewell kisses. They were simply blown to bits while they
were playing."

"I understand that, Mr. Kramer. But killing Sam will not bring them
back."

"No, it won't. But it'll make us feel a helluva lot better. It'll ease a lot
of pain. I've prayed a million times that I'll live long enough to see him
dead. I had a heart attack five years ago. They had me strapped to
machines for two weeks, and the one thing that kept me alive was my
desire to outlive Sam Cayhall. I'll be there, Mr. Hall, if my doctors allow
it. I'll be there to watch him die, then I'll come home and count my
days."

"I'm sorry you feel this way."

"I'm sorry I do too. I'm sorry I ever heard the name Sam Cayhall."

Adam took a step backward and leaned on the counter near the cash
register. He stared at the floor, and Mr. Kramer stared through the
window. The sun was falling to the west, behind the building, and the
quaint little museum was growing dimmer.

"I lost my father because of this," Adam said softly.

"I'm sorry. I read where he had committed suicide shortly after the
last trial."

"Sam has suffered too, Mr. Kramer. He wrecked his family, and he
wrecked yours. And he carries more guilt than you or I could ever
imagine."

"Perhaps he won't be as burdened when he's dead."

"Perhaps. But why don't we stop the killing?"

"How do you expect me to stop it?"

"I read somewhere that you and the governor are old friends."

"Why is it any of your business?"

"It's true, isn't it?"

"He's a local boy. I've known him for many years."

"I met him last week for the first time. He has the power to grant
clemency, you know."

"I wouldn't count on that."

"I'm not. I'm desperate, Mr. Kramer. I have nothing to lose at this
point, except my grandfather. If you and your family are hell-bent on
pushing for the execution, then the governor will certainly listen to
you.

288 JOHN GRISHAM

"You're right."

"And if you decided you didn't want an execution, I think the gover-
nor might Hsten to that as well."

"So it's all up to me," he said, finally moving. He walked in front of
Adam and stopped near the window. "You're not only desperate, Mr.
Hall, you're also naive."

"I won't argue that."

"It's nice to know I have so much power. If I had known this before
now, your grandfather would've been dead years ago."

"He doesn't deserve to die, Mr. Kramer," Adam said as he walked to
the door. He hadn't expected to find sympathy. It was important only
for Mr. Kramer to see him and know that other lives were being af-
fected.

"Neither did my grandsons. Neither did my son."

Adam opened the door, and said, "I'm sorry for the intrusion, and I
thank you for your time. I have a sister, a cousin, and an aunt, Sam's
daughter. I just wanted you to know that Sam has a family, such as it is.
We wiU suffer if he dies. If he's not executed, he'U never leave prison.
He'll simply wilt away and die some day very soon of natural causes."

"You wiU suffer?"

"Yes sir. It's a pathetic family, Mr. Kramer, fiUed with tragedy. I'm
trying to avoid another one."

Mr. Kramer turned and looked at him. His face bore no expression.
"Then I feel sorry for you."

"Thanks again," Adam said.

"Good day, sir," Mr. Kramer said without a smile.

Adam left the building and walked along a shaded street until he was
in the center of town. He found the memorial park, and sat on the same
bench not far firom the bronze statue of the Httle boys. After a few
minutes, though, he was tired of the guilt and memories, and he walked
away.

He went to the same cafe a block away, drank coffee, and toyed with a
grilled cheese. He heard a Sam CayhaU conversation several tables away,
but couldn't discern what exactly was being said.

He checked into a motel and called Lee. She sounded sober, and
maybe a bit reHeved that he would not be there tonight. He promised to
return tomorrow^ evening. By the time it was dark, Adam had been
asleep for half an hour.

THIRTY-ONE

A DAM DROVE through downtown Memphis in the predawn
f-^L hours, and was locked in his office by 7 a.m. By eight, he'd
-/- -A- talked to E. Garner Goodman three times. Goodman, it seemed,
was wired and also having trouble sleeping. They discussed at length the
issue of Keyes' representation at trial. The Cayhall file was filled with
memos and research about what went wrong at trial, but little of it
placed blame on Benjamin Keyes.

But that had been many years ago, when the gas chamber seemed too
distant to worry about. Goodman was pleased to hear that Sam now felt
he should' ve testified at trial, and that Keyes had stopped him. Goodman
was skeptical of the truth at this point, but he would take Sam's word for
it.

Both Goodman and Adam knew the issue should've been raised years
ago, and that to do so now was a long shot at best. Law books were
getting thicker by the week with Supreme Court decisions barring legit-
imate claims because they weren't timely filed. But it was a real issue,
one always examined by the courts, and Adam got excited as he drafted
and redrafted the claim and swapped faxes with Goodman.

Again, the claim would first be filed under the postconviction reHef
statutes in state court. He hoped for a quick denial there so he could
immediately run to federal court.

At ten, he faxed his final draft to the clerk of the Mississippi Supreme
Court, and also faxed a copy of it to the attention of Breck Jefferson in
Slattery's office. Faxes also went to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit in New
Orleans. Then he called the Death Clerk at the Supreme Court, and told

290 JOHN GRISHAM

Mr. Olander what he was doing. Mr. Olander instructed him to imme-
diately fax a copy to Washington.

Darlene knocked on the door, and Adam unlocked it. He had a visitor
waiting in the reception area, a Mr. Wyn Lettner. Adam thanked her,
and a few minutes later walked down the hall and greeted Lettner, who
was alone and dressed Hke a man who o\vned a trout dock. Deck shoes,
fishing cap. They exchanged pleasantries: fish were biting, Irene was
fine, when was he coming back to Calico Rock?

"I'm in town on business, and I just wanted to see you for a few
minutes," he said in a low whisper with his back to the receptionist.

"Sure," Adam whispered. "My office is down the hall."

"No. Let's take a walk."

They rode the elevator to the lobby, and stepped from the building
onto the pedestrian mall. Lettner bought a bag of roasted peanuts from a
pushcart vendor, and offered Adam a handful. He declined. They walked
slowly north toward city hall and the federal building. Lettner alternately
ate the peanuts and tossed them to the pigeons.

"How's Sam?" he finally asked.

"He has two weeks. How would you feel if you had two weeks?"

"Guess I'd be praying a lot."

"He's not at that point yet, but it won't be long."

"Is it gonna happen?"

"It's certainly being planned. There's nothing in writing to stop it."

Lettner threw a handful of peanuts into his mouth. "Well, good luck
to you. Since you came to see me, I've found myself pulling for you and
ol' Sam."

"Thanks. And you came to Memphis to wish me luck?"

"Not exactly. After you left, I thought a lot about Sam and the
Kramer bombing. I looked at my personal files and records — stuff I
haven't thought about in years. It brought back a lot of memories. I
called a few of my old buddies and we told war stories about the Klan.
Those were the days."

"I'm sorry that I missed them."

"Anyway, I thought of a few things that maybe I should've told you."

"Such as."

"There's more to the Dogan story. You know he died a year after he
testified."

"Sam told me."

"He and his wife were killed when their house blew up. Some kind of
propane leak in the heater. House filled up with gas, and something
ignited it. Went off like a bomb, a huge fireball. Buried them in sand-
wich bags."

THE CHAMBER 291

"Sad, but so what?"

"We never believed it was an accident. The crime lab boys down
there tried to reconstruct the heater. A lot of it was destroyed, but they
were of the opinion it had been rigged to leak."

"How does this affect Sam?"

"It doesn't affect Sam."

"Then why are we talking about it?"

"It might affect you."

"I really don't follow."

"Dogan had a son, a kid who joined the Army in 1979 and was sent
to Germany. At some point in the summer of 1980, Dogan and Sam
were indicted again by the circuit court in Greenville, and shortly there-
after it became widely known that Dogan had agreed to testify against
Sam. It was a big story. In October of 1980, Dogan's son went AWOL in
Germany. Vanished." He crunched on some peanuts and tossed the hulls
to a covey of pigeons. "Never found him either. Army searched high
and low. Months went by. Then a year. Dogan died not knowing what
happened to the kid."

"What happened to him?"

"Don't know. To this day, he's never turned up."

"He died?"

"Probably. There was no sign of him."

"Who killed hmi?"

"Maybe the same person who killed his parents."

"And who might that be?"

"We had a theory, but no suspect. We thought at the time that the son
was grabbed before the trial as a warning to Dogan. Perhaps Dogan
knew secrets."

"Then why kill Dogan after the trial?"

They stopped under a shade tree and sat on a bench in Court Square.
Adam finally took some peanuts.

"Who knew the details of the bombing?" Lettner asked. "All the
details."

"Sam. Jeremiah Dogan."

"Right. And who was their lawyer in the first two trials?"

"Clovis Brazelton."

"Would it be safe to assume Brazelton knew the details?"

"I suppose. He was active in the Klan, wasn't he?"

"Yep, he was a Klucker. That makes three — Sam, Dogan, and Brazel-
ton. Anybody else?"

Adam thought for a second. "Perhaps the mysterious accomplice."

292 JOHN GRISHAM

"Perhaps. Dogan's dead. Sam wouldn't talk. And Brazelton died many
years ago."

"How'd he die?"

"Plane crash. The Kramer case made him a hero down there, and he
was able to parlay his fame into a very successful law practice. He Hked to
fly, so he bought himself a plane and buzzed around everywhere trying
lawsuits. A real big shot. He was flying back from the Coast one night
when the plane disappeared from radar. They found his body in a tree.
The weather was clear. The FAA said there'd been some type of engine
failure."

"Another mysterious death."

"Yep. So everybody's dead but Sam, and he's getting close."

"Any link between Dogan's death and Brazelton's?"

"No. They were years apart. But the theory includes the scenario that
the deaths were the work of the same person."

"So who's at work here?"

"Someone who's very concerned about secrets. Could be Sam's mys-
terious accomplice, John Doe."

"That's a pretty wild theory."

"Yes, it is. And it's one with absolutely no proof to support it. But I
told you in Calico Rock that we always suspected Sam had help. Or
perhaps Sam was merely a helper for John Doe. At any rate, when Sam
screwed up and got caught, John Doe vanished. Perhaps he's been at
work eliminating witnesses."

"Why would he kill Dogan's wife?"

"Because she happened to be in bed with him when the house blew

up."

"Why would he kill Dogan's son?"

"To keep Dogan quiet. Remember, when Dogan testified his son had
been missing for four months."

"I've never read anything about the son."

"It was not well known. It happened in Germany. We advised Dogan
to keep it quiet."

"I'm confused. Dogan didn't fmger anybody else at trial. Only Sam.
Why would John Doe kill him afterward?"

"Because he still knew secrets. And because he testified against an-
other Klansman."

Adam cracked two shells and dropped the peanuts in front of a single,
fat pigeon. Lettner finished the bag and threw another handful of hulls
on the sidewalk near a water fountain. It was almost noon, and dozens of
office workers hurried through the park in pursuit of the perfect thirty-
minute lunch.

THE CHAMBER 293

"You hungry?" Lettner asked, glancing at his watch.

"No."

"Thirsty? I need a beer."

"No. How does John Doe affect me?"

"Sam's the only witness left, and he's scheduled to be silenced in two
weeks. If he dies without talking, then John Doe can live in peace. If
Sam doesn't die in two weeks, then John Doe is still anxious. But if Sam
starts talking, then somebody might get hurt."

"Me?"

"You're the one trying to fmd the truth."

"You think he's out there?"

"Could be. Or he might be driving a cab in Montreal. Or maybe he
never existed."

Adam glanced over both shoulders with exaggerated looks of fear.

"I know it sounds crazy," Lettner said.

"John Doe is safe. Sam ain't talking."

"There's a potential danger, Adam. I just wanted you to know."

"I'm not scared. If Sam gave me John Doe's name right now, I'd
scream it in the streets and file motions by the truckload. And it
wouldn't do any good. It's too late for new theories of guilt or inno-
cence."

"What about the governor?"

"I doubt it."

"Well, I want you to be careful."

"Thanks, I guess."

"Let's get a beer."

I've got to keep this guy away from Lee, Adam thought. "It's five
minutes before noon. Surely you don't start this early."

"Oh, sometimes I start with breakfast."

JOHN DOE sat on a park bench with a newspaper in front of his face
and pigeons around his feet. He was eighty feet away, so he couldn't hear
what they were saying. He thought he recognized the old man with
Adam as an FBI agent whose face had appeared in the newspapers years
ago. He would follow the guy and find out who he was and where he
Hved.

Wedge was getting bored with Memphis, and this suited him fine.
The kid worked at the office and drove to Parchman and slept at the
condo, and seemed to be spinning his wheels. Wedge followed the news
carefully. His name had not been mentioned. No one knew about him.

294 JOHN GRISHAM

THE NOTE on the counter was dated properly. She had given the time
as 7:15 p.m. It was Lee's handwriting, which was not neat to begin with
but was even sloppier now. She said she was in bed with what appeared
to be the flu. Please don't disturb. She'd been to the doctor who told her
to sleep it off. For added effect, a prescription bottle from a local phar-
macy was sitting nearby next to a half-empty glass of water. It had
today's date on it.

Adam quickly checked the wastebasket under the sink — no sign of
booze.

He quietly put a frozen pizza in the microwave and went to the patio
to watch the barges on the river.

THIRTY-TWO

THE FIRST KITE of the morning arrived shortly after breakfast,
as Sam stood in his baggy boxer shorts and leaned through the
bars with a cigarette. It was from Preacher Boy, and it brought
bad news. It read:

Dear Sam:

The dream is finished. The Lord worked on me last night and fmaUy
showed me the rest of it. I wish he hadn't done it. There's a lot to it,
and I'll explain it all if you want. Bottom line is that you'll be with
him shortly. He told me to tell you to get things right with him.
He's waiting. The journey will be rough, but the rewards wiU be
worth it. I love you.

Brother Randy

Bon voyage, Sam mumbled to himself as he crumpled the paper and
threw it on the floor. The kid was slowly deteriorating, and there was no
way to help him. Sam had already prepared a series of motions to be filed
at some uncertain point in the future when Brother Randy was thor-
oughly insane.

He saw Gullitt's hands come through the bars next door.

"How you doin', Sam?" GuDitt finally asked.

"God's upset with me," Sam said.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Preacher Boy finished his dream last night."

"Thank God for that."

"It was more like a nightmare."

296 JOHN GRISHAM

"I wouldn't worry too much about it. Crazy bastard has dreams when
he's wide awake. They said yesterday he's been crying for a week."

"Can you hear him?"

"No. Thank God."

"Poor kid. I've done some motions for him, just in case I leave this
place. I want to leave them with you."

"I don't know what to do with them."

"I'll leave instructions. They're to be sent to his lawyer."

GuUitt whistled softly. "Man oh man, Sam. What am I gonna do if
you leave? I ain't talked to my lawyer in a year."

"Your lawyer is a moron."

"Then help me fire him, Sam. Please. You just fired yours. Help me
fire mine. I don't know how to do it."

"Then who'll represent you?"

"Your grandson. Tell him he can have my case."

Sam smiled, then he chuckled. And then he laughed at the idea of
rounding up his buddies on the Row and delivering their hopeless cases
to Adam.

"What's so damned funny?" Gullitt demanded.

"You. What makes you think he'll want your case?"

"Come on, Sam. Talk to the kid for me. He must be smart if he's
your grandson."

"What if they gas me? Do you want a lawyer who's just lost his first
death row cHent?"

"Hell, I can't be particular right now."

"Relax, J.B. You have years to go."

"How many years?"

"At least five, maybe more."

"You swear?"

"You have my word. I'll put it in writing. If I'm wrong, you can sue
me."

"Real funny, Sam. Real funny."

A door cHcked open at the end of the hall, and heavy footsteps came
their way. It was Packer, and he stopped in front of number six.
"Mornin', Sam," he said.

"Mornin', Packer."

"Put your reds on. You have a visitor."

"Who is it?"

"Somebody w^ho wants to talk to you."

"Who is it?" Sam repeated as he quickly slipped into his red jumpsuit.
He grabbed his cigarettes. He didn't care who the visitor was or what he
wanted. A visit by anyone was a welcome relief from his cell.

THE CHAMBER 297

"Hurry up, Sam," Packer said.

"Is it my lawyer?" Sam asked as he slid his feet into the rubber shower
shoes.

"No." Packer handcuffed him through the bars, and the door to his
ceU opened. They left Tier A and headed for the same little room where
the lawyers always waited.

Packer removed the handcuffs and slammed the door behind Sam,
who focused on the heavy-set woman seated on the other side of the
screen. He rubbed his wrists for her benefit and took a few steps to the
seat opposite her. He did not recognize the woman. He sat down, lit a
cigarette, and glared at her.

She scooted forward in her chair, and nervously said, "Mr. Cayhall,
my name is Dr. Stegall." She slipped a business card through the open-
ing. "I'm the psychiatrist for the State Department of Corrections."

Sam studied the card on the counter in front of him. He picked it up
and examined it suspiciously. "Says here your name is N. Stegall. Dr.
N. Stegall."

"That's correct."

"That's a strange name, N. I've never met a woman named N. be-
fore."

The small, anxious grin disappeared from her face, and her spine
stiffened. "It's just an initial, okay. There are reasons for it."

"What's it stand for?"

"That's really none of your business."

"Nancy? Nelda? Nona?"

"If I wanted you to know, I would' ve put it on the card, now
wouldn't I?"

"I don't know. Must be something horrible, whatever it is. Nick?
Ned? I can't imagine hiding behind an initial."

"I'm not hiding, Mr. Cayhall."

"Just call me S., okay?"

Her jaws clenched and she scowled through the screen. "I'm here to
help you."

"You're too late, N."

"Please call me Dr. Stegall."

"Oh, well, in that case you can call me Lawyer Cayhall."

"Lawyer CayhaU?"

"Yes. I know more law than most of the clowns who sit over there
where you are."

She managed a shght, patronizing smile, then said, "I'm supposed to
consult you at this stage of the proceedings to see if I can be of any
assistance. You don't have to cooperate if you don't want."

298 JOHN GRISHAM

"Thank you so much."

"If you need to talk to me, or if you need any medication now or
later, just let me know."

"How about some whiskey?"

"I can't prescribe that."

"Why not?"

"Prison regulations, I guess."

"What can you prescribe?"

"Tranquilizers, VaHum, sleeping pills, things Hke that."

"For what?"

"For your nerves."

"My nerves are fme."

"Are you able to sleep?"

Sam thought for a long moment. "Well, to be honest, I am having a
Httle trouble. Yesterday I slept off and on for no more than twelve hours.
Usually I'm good for fifteen or sixteen."

"Twelve hours?"

"Yeah. How often do you get over here to death row?"

"Not very often."

"That's what I thought. If you knew what you were doing, you'd
know that we average about sixteen hours a day."

"I see. And what else might I learn?"

"Oh, lots of things. You'd know that Randy Dupree is slowly going
insane, and no one around here cares about him. Why haven't you been
to see him?"

"There are five thousand inmates here, Mr. CayhaU. I — "

"Then leave. Go away. Go tend to the rest of them. I've been here for
nine and a half years and never met you. Now that y'all are about to gas
me, you come running over with a bag full of drugs to calm my nerves
so I'll be sweet and gentle when you kill me. Why should you care about
my nerves and my sleeping habits? You're working for the state and the
state is working Hke hell to execute me."

"I'm doing my job, Mr. Cayhall."

"Your job stinks, Ned. Get a real job where you can help people.
You're here right now because I've got thirteen days and you want me to
go in peace. You're just another flunkie for the state."

"I didn't come here to be abused."

"Then get your big ass out of here. Leave. Go and sin no more."

She jumped to her feet and grabbed her briefcase. "You have my card.
If you need anything, let me know."

"Sure, Ned. Don't sit by the phone." Sam stood and walked to the

THE CHAMBER 299

door on his side. He banged it twice with the palm of his hand, and
waited with his back to her until Packer opened it.

ADAM WAS PACKING his briefcase in preparation for a quick trip to
Parchman when the phone rang. Darlene said it was urgent. She was
right.

The caller identified himself as the clerk of the Fifth Circuit Court of
Appeals in New Orleans, and was remarkably friendly. He said the
Cayhall petition attacking the constitutionality of the gas chamber had
been received on Monday, had been assigned to a three-judge panel, and
that the panel wanted to hear oral argument from both sides. Could he
be in New Orleans at 1 p.m. tomorrow, Friday, for the oral argument?

Adam almost dropped the phone. Tomorrow? Of course, he said after
a sHght hesitation. One o'clock sharp, the clerk said, then explained that
the court did not normally hear oral argument in the afternoon. But
because of the urgency of this matter, the court had scheduled a special
hearing. He asked Adam if he'd ever argued before the Fifth Circuit
before.

Are you kidding, Adam thought. A year ago I was studying for the bar
exam. He said no, in fact he had not, and the clerk said he would
immediately fax to Adam a copy of the court's rules governing oral
argument. Adam thanked him profusely, and hung up.

He sat on the edge of the table and tried to collect his thoughts.
Darlene brought the fax to him, and he asked her to check the flights to
New Orleans.

Had he caught the attention of the court with his issues? Was this
good news, or just a formality? In his brief career as a lawyer, he had
stood alone before the bench to argue a client's position on only one
occasion. But Emmitt Wycoff had been seated nearby, just in case. And
the judge had been a familiar one. And it had happened in downtown
Chicago, not far from his office. Tomorrow he would walk into a strange
courtroom in a strange city and try to defend an eleventh-hour plea
before a panel of judges he'd never heard of

He called E. Garner Goodman with the news. Goodman had been to
the Fifth Circuit many times, and as he talked Adam relaxed. It was
neither good news nor bad, in Goodman's opinion. The court was
obviously interested in the lawsuit, but they'd heard it all before. Both
Texas and Louisiana had sent similar constitutional claims to the Fifth
Circuit in recent years.

Goodman assured him that he could handle the arguments. Just be
prepared, he said. And try to relax. It might be possible for him to fly to

300 JOHN GRISHAM

New Orleans and be there, but Adam said no. He said he could do it
alone. Keep in touch, Goodman said.

Adam checked with Darlene, then locked himself in his office. He
memorized the rules for oral argument. He studied the lawsuit attacking
the gas chamber. He read briefs and cases. He called Parchman and left
word for Sam that he w^ould not be there today.

HE WORKED UNTIL DARK, then made the dreaded trip to Lee's
condo. The same note was sitting on the counter, untouched and still
declaring that she was in bed with the flu. He eased around the apart-
ment and saw no signs of movement or life during the day.

Her bedroom door was sHghtly opened. He tapped on it while push-
ing. "Lee," he called out gently into the darkness. "Lee, are you all
right?"

There was movement in the bed, though he couldn't see what it was.
"Yes dear," she said. "Come in."

Adam slowly sat on the edge of the bed and tried to focus on her. The
only light was a faint beam from the hallway. She pushed herself up and
rested on the pillows. "I'm better," she said with a scratchy voice. "How
are you, dear?"

"I'm fine, Lee. I'm worried about you."

"I'U be okay. It's a wicked Httle virus."

The first pungent vapor wafted from the bedsheets and covers, and
Adam wanted to cry. It was the reeking odor of stale vodka or gin or
sour mash, or maybe a combination of everything. He couldn't see her
eyes in the murky shadows, only the vague outline of her face. She was
wearing a dark shirt of some sort.

"What type of medication?" he asked.

"I don't know. Just some pills. The doctor said it'll last for a few days,
then quickly disappear. I feel better already."

Adam started to say something about the oddity of a flu-like virus in
late July, but let it pass. "Are you able to eat?"

"No appetite, really."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No dear. How have you been? What day is it?"

"It's Thursday."

"I feel like I've been in a cave for a week."

Adam had two choices. He could play along with the wicked little
virus act and hope she stopped the drinking before it got worse. Or he
could confront her now and make her realize she was not fooUng him.
Maybe they would fight, and maybe this was what you were supposed to

THE CHAMBER 301

do with drunks who'd fallen off the wagon. How was he supposed to
know what to do?

"Does your doctor know you're drinking?" he asked, holding his
breath.

There was a long pause. "I haven't been drinking," she said, almost
inaudible.

"Come on, Lee. I found the vodka bottle in the wastebasket. I know
the other three bottles of beer disappeared last Saturday. You smell Hke a
brewery right now. You're not fooling anyone, Lee. You're drinking
heavily, and I want to help."

She sat straighter, and pulled her legs up to her chest. Then she was
still for a long time. Adam glanced at her silhouette. Minutes passed. The
apartment was deathly quiet.

"How's my dear father?" she muttered. Her words were sluggish, but
still bitter.

"I didn't see him today."

"Don't you think we'll be better off when he's dead?"

Adam looked at her silhouette. "No, Lee, I don't. Do you?"

She was silent and still for at least a minute. "You feel sorry for him,
don't you?" she finally asked.

"Yes, I do."

"Is he pitiful?"

"Yes, he is."

"What does he look like?"

"A very old man, with plenty of gray hair that's always oily and pulled
back. He has a short gray beard. Lots of wrinkles. His skin is very pale."

"What does he wear?"

"A red jumpsuit. AH death row inmates wear the same thing."

Another long pause as she thought about this. Then she said, "I guess
it's easy to feel sorry for him."

"It is for me."

"But you see, Adam, I've never seen him the way you see him. I saw a
different person."

"And what did you see?"

She adjusted the blanket around her legs, then grew still again. "My
father was a person I despised."

"Do you still despise him?"

"Yes. Very much so. I think he should go ahead and die. God knows
he deserves it."

"Why does he deserve it?"

This prompted another spell of silence. She moved sHghtly to her left

302 JOHN GRISHAM

and took a cup or glass from the nightstand. She sipped slowly, as Adam
watched her shadows. He didn't ask what she was drinking.

"Does he talk to you about the past?"

"Only when I ask questions. We've talked about Eddie, but I prom-
ised we wouldn't do it again."

"He's the reason Eddie's dead. Does he realize this?"

"Maybe."

"Did you tell him? Did you blame him for Eddie?"

"No."

"You should have. You're too easy on him. He needs to know what
he's done."

"I think he does. But you said yourself it's not fair to torment him at
this point of his life."

"How about Joe Lincoln? Did you talk to him about Joe Lincoln?"

"I told Sam that you and I went to the old family place. He asked me
if I knew about Joe Lincoln. I said that I did."

"Did he deny it?"

"No. He showed a lot of remorse."

"He's a liar."

"No. I think he was sincere."

Another long pause as she sat motionless. Then, "Has he told you
about the lynching?"

Adam closed his eyes and rested his elbows on his knees. "No," he
mumbled.

"I didn't think so."

"I don't want to hear it, Lee."

"Yes you do. You came down here full of questions about the family
and about your past. Two weeks ago you just couldn't get enough of the
Cayhall family misery. You wanted all the blood and gore."

"I've heard enough," he said.

"What day is it?" she asked.

"It's Thursday, Lee. You've already asked once."

"One of my girls was due today. Her second child. I didn't call the
office. I guess it's the medication."

"And the alcohol."

"All right, dammit. So I'm an alcoholic. Who can blame me? Some-
times I wish I had the guts to do what Eddie did."

"Come on, Lee. Let me help you."

"Oh, you've already helped a great deal, Adam. I was fine, nice and
sober until you arrived."

"Okay. I was wrong. I'm sorry. I just didn't reaHze — " His words
trailed off, then quit.

THE CHAMBER 303

She moved slightly and Adam watched as she took another sip. A
heavy silence engulfed them as minutes passed. The rancid smell ema-
nated from her end of the bed.

"Mother told me the story," she said quietly, almost whispering. "She
said she'd heard rumors about it for years. Long before they married she
knew he'd helped lynch a young black man."

"Please, Lee."

"I never asked him about it, but Eddie did. We had whispered about it
for many years, and finally one day Eddie just up and confronted him
with the story. They had a nasty fight, but Sam admitted it was true. It
really didn't bother him, he said. The black kid had allegedly raped a
white girl, but she was white trash and many people doubted if it was
really a rape. This is according to Mother's version. Sam was fifteen or so
at the time, and a bunch of men went down to the jail, got the black kid,
and took him out in the woods. Sam's father, of course, was the ring-
leader, and his brothers were involved."

"That's enough, Lee."

"They beat him with a bullwhip, then hung him from a tree. My dear
father was right in the middle of it. He couldn't really deny it, you
know, because somebody took a picture of it."

"A photograph?"

"Yeah. A few years later the photo found its way into a book about
the plight of Negroes in the Deep South. It was published in 1947. My
mother had a copy of it for years. Eddie found it in the attic."

"And Sam's in the photograph."

"Sure. Smiling from ear to ear. They're standing under the tree and
the black guy's feet are dangling just above their heads. Everybody's
having a ball. Just another nigger lynching. There are no credits with the
photo, no names. The picture speaks for itself It's described as a lynch-
ing in rural Mississippi, 1936."

"Where's the book?"

"Over there in the drawer. I've kept it in storage with other family
treasures since the foreclosure. I got it out the other day. I thought you
might want to see it."

"No. I do not want to see it."

"Go ahead. You wanted to know about your family. Well, there they
are. Grandfather, great-grandfather, and all sorts of Cayhalls at their very
best. Caught in the act, and quite proud of it."

"Stop it, Lee."

"There were other lynchings, you know."

"Shut up, Lee. Okay? I don't want to hear any more."

She leaned to her side and reached for the nightstand.

304 JOHN GRISHAM

"What are you drinking, Lee?"

"Cough syrup."

"Bullshit!" Adam jumped to his feet and walked through the darkness
to the nightstand. Lee quickly gulped the last of the Uquid. He grabbed
the glass from her hand and sniffed the top of it. "This is bourbon."

"There's more in the pantry. Would you get it for me?"

"No! You've had more than enough."

"If I want it, I'll get it."

"No you won't, Lee. You're not drinking any more tonight. Tomor-
row^ I'll take you to the doctor, and we'U get some help."

"I don't need help. I need a gun."

Adam placed the glass on the dresser and switched on a lamp. She
shielded her eyes for a few seconds, then looked at him. They were red
and puffy. Her hair was wild, dirty, and unkempt.

"Not a pretty sight, huh," she said, slurring her words, and looking
away.

"No. But we'll get help, Lee. We'll do it tomorrow."

"Get me a drink, Adam. Please."

"No."

"Then leave me alone. This is all your fault, you know. Now, leave,
please. Go on to bed."

Adam grabbed a pillow from the center of the bed and threw it against
the door. "I'm sleeping here tonight," he said, pointing at the pillow.
"I'm locking the door, and you're not leaving this room."

She glared at him, but said nothing. He switched off the lamp, and the
room was completely dark. He pressed the lock on the knob and
stretched out on the carpet against the door. "Now sleep it off, Lee."

"Go to bed, Adam. I promise I won't leave the room."

"No. You're drunk, and I'm not moving. If you try to open this door,
I'll physically put you back in the bed."

"That sounds sort of romantic."

"Knock it off, Lee. Go to sleep."

"I can't sleep."

"Try it."

"Let's tell CayhaU stories, okay, Adam? I know a few more lynching
stories."

"Shut up, Lee!" Adam screamed, and she was suddenly quiet. The
bed squeaked as she wiggled and flipped and got herself situated. After
fifteen minutes, she was subdued. After thirty minutes, the floor became
uncomfortable and Adam roUed from side to side.

Sleep came in brief naps, interrupted by long periods of staring at the
ceiling and worrying about her, and about the Fifth Circuit. At one

THE CHAMBER 305

point during the night he sat with his back to the door and stared
through the darkness in the direction of the drawer. Was the book really
there? He was tempted to sneak over and get it, then ease into the
bathroom to look for the picture. But he couldn't risk waking her. And
he didn't want to see it.

THIRTY-THREE

HE FOUND a pint of bourbon hidden behind a box of saltines
in the pantry, and emptied it in the sink. It was dark outside.
Sunlight was an hour away. He made the coffee strong, and
sipped it on the sofa while he rehearsed the arguments he would present
in a few hours in New Orleans.

He reviewed his notes on the patio at dawn, and by seven he was in
the kitchen making toast. No sign of Lee. He didn't want a confronta-
tion, but one was necessary. He had things to say, and she had apologies
to make, and he rattled plates and forks on the counter. The volume was
increased for the morning news.

But there was no movement from her part of the condo. After he
showered and dressed, he gently turned the knob to her door. It was
locked. She had sealed herself in her cave, and prevented the painful talk
of the morning after. He wrote a note and explained that he would be in
New Orleans today and tonight, and he would see her tomorrow. He
said he was sorry for now, and they would talk about it later. He pleaded
with her not to drink.

The note was placed on the counter where she couldn't miss it. Adam
left the condo and drove to the airport.

The direct flight to New Orleans took fifty-five minutes. Adam drank
fruit juice and tried to sit comfortably to soothe his stiff back. He'd slept
less than three hours on the floor by the door, and vowed not to do it
again. By her own admission, she'd been through recovery three times
over the years, and if she couldn't stay off the booze by herself there w^as
certainly nothing he could do to help. He would stay in Memphis until

THE CHAMBER 307

this miserable case was over, and if his aunt couldn't stay sober, then he
could manage things from a hotel room.

He fought himself to forget about her for the next few hours. He
needed to concentrate on legal matters, not lynchings and photographs
and horror stories from the past; not his beloved aunt and her problems.

The plane touched down in New Orleans, and suddenly his concen-
tration became sharper. He mentally clicked off the names of dozens of
recent death penalty cases from the Fifth Circuit and the U.S. Supreme
Court.

The hired car was a Cadillac sedan, one arranged by Darlene and
charged to Kravitz & Bane. It came with a driver, and as Adam relaxed
in the rear seat he conceded that Ufe in a big firm did indeed have certain
advantages. Adam had never been to New Orleans before, and the drive
from the airport could've taken place in any city. Just traffic and express-
ways. The driver turned onto Poydras Street by the Superdome, and
suddenly they were downtown. He explained to his passenger that the
French Quarter was a few blocks away, not far from Adam's hotel. The
car stopped on Camp Street, and Adam stepped onto the sidewalk in
front of a building simply called the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. It
was an impressive structure, with Greek columns and lots of steps leading
to the front entrance.

He found the clerk's office on the main floor, and asked for the
gentleman he'd spoken to, a Mr. Feriday. Mr. Feriday was as sincere and
courteous in person as he'd been on the phone. He properly registered
Adam, and explained some of the rules of the court. He asked Adam if
he wanted a quick tour of the place. It was almost noon, the place was
not busy, and it was the perfect time for a look around. They headed for
the courtrooms, passing along the way various offices of the judges and
staff.

"The Fifth Circuit has fifteen judges," Mr. Feriday explained as they
walked casuaUy over marble floors, "and their offices are along these
hallways. Right now the court has three vacancies, and the nominations
are tied up in Washington." The corridors were dark and quiet, as if
great minds were at work behind the broad wooden doors.

Mr. Feriday went first to the En Banc courtroom, a large, intimidating
stage with fifteen chairs sitting snugly together in a half-circle in the
front of the room. "Most of the work here is assigned to three-judge
panels. But occasionally the entire body sits en banc," he explained
quietly, as if still in awe of the spectacular room. The bench was elevated
well above the rest of the room, so that the lawyers at the podium below
looked upward as they pleaded. The room was marble and dark wood,
heavy drapes and a huge chandeHer. It was ornate but understated, old

308 JOHN GRISHAM

but meticulously maintained, and as Adam inspected it he felt quite
frightened. Only rarely does the entire court sit en banc, Mr. Feriday
explained again as if he were instructing a first-year student of the law.
The great civil rights decisions of the sixties and seventies took place
right here, he said with no smaU amount of pride. Portraits of deceased
justices hung behind the bench.

As beautiful and stately as it was, Adam hoped he never saw it again, at
least not as a lawyer representing a client. They walked down the haU to
the West Courtroom, which was smaller than the first but just as intimi-
dating. This is \vhere the three-judge panels operate, Mr. Feriday ex-
plained as they walked past the seats in the spectators' section, through
the bar and to the podium. The bench again was elevated, though not as
lofty or as long as En Banc.

"Virtually all oral arguments take place in the morning, beginning at
nine," Mr. Feriday said. "Your case is a bit different because it's a death
case that's going down to the wire." He pointed a crooked finger at the
seats in the back. "You'U need to be seated out there a few minutes
before one, and the clerk will call the case. Then you come through the
bar and sit right here at counsel table. You'll go first, and you have
twenty minutes."

Adam knew this, but it was certainly nice to be walked through it.

Mr. Feriday pointed to a device on the podium which resembled a
traffic Hght. "This is the timer," he said gravely. "And it is very impor-
tant. Twenty minutes, okay. There are horrific stories of long-winded
lawyers who ignored this. Not a pretty sight. The green is on when
you're talking. The yellow comes on when you want your warning —
tw^o minutes, five minutes, thirty seconds, whatever. When the red
comes on, you simply stop in mid-sentence and go sit down. It's that
simple. Any questions?"

"Who are the judges?"

"McNeely, Robichaux, and Judy." He said this as if Adam personally
knew all three. "There's a waiting room over there, and there's a library
on the third floor. Just be here about ten minutes before one. Any more
questions?"

"No sir. Thanks."

"I'm in my office if you need me. Good luck." They shook hands.
Mr. Feriday left Adam standing at the podium.

AT TEN MINUTES BEFORE ONE, Adam walked through the mas-
sive oak doors of the West Courtroom for the second time, and found
other lawyers preparing for battle. On the first row behind the bar,
Attorney General Steve Roxburgh and his cluster of assistants were hud-

THE CHAMBER 309

died together plotting tactics. They hushed when Adam walked in, and a
few nodded and tried to smile. Adam sat by himself along the aisle and
ignored them.

Lucas Mann was seated on their side of the courtroom, though several
rows behind Roxburgh and his boys. He casually read a newspaper, and
waved to Adam when their eyes met. It was good to see him. He was
starched from head to toe in wrinkle-free khaki, and his tie was wild
enough to glow in the dark. It was obvious Mann was not intimidated by
the Fifth Circuit and its trappings, and equaUy as obvious that he was
keeping his distance from Roxburgh. He was only the attorney for
Parchman, only doing his job. If the Fifth Circuit granted a stay and Sam
didn't die, Lucas Mann would be pleased. Adam nodded and smiled at
him.

Roxburgh and his gang rehuddled. Morris Henry, Dr. Death, was in
the middle of it, explaining things to lesser minds.

Adam breathed deeply and tried to relax. It was quite difficult. His
stomach was churning and his feet tw^itched, and he kept telling himself
that it would only last for twenty minutes. The three judges couldn't kill
him, they could only embarrass him, and even that could last for only
twenty minutes. He could endure anything for twenty minutes. He
glanced at his notes, and to calm himself he tried to think of Sam — not
Sam the racist, the murderer, the lynch mob thug, but Sam the client,
the old man wasting away on death row who was entitled to die in peace
and dignity. Sam was about to get twenty minutes of this court's valuable
time, so his lawyer had to make the most of it.

A heavy door thudded shut somewhere, and Adam jumped in his seat.
The court crier appeared from behind the bench and announced that
this honorable court was now in session. He was followed by three
figures in flowing black robes — McNeely, Robichaux, and Judy, each of
whom carried files and seemed to be totally without humor or goodwill.
They sat in their massive leather chairs high up on the shiny, dark, oak-
paneled bench, and looked down upon the courtroom. The case of State
of Mississippi v. Sam Cayhall was called, and the attorneys were sum-
moned from the back of the room. Adam nervously walked through the
swinging gate in the bar, and was followed by Steve Roxburgh. The
Assistant Attorney Generals kept their seats, as did Lucas Mann and a
handful of spectators. Most of these, Adam would later learn, were re-
porters.

The presiding judge was Judy, the Honorable T. Eileen Judy, a young
woman from Texas. Robichaux was from Louisiana, and in his late fif-
ties. McNeely looked to be a hundred and twenty, and was also from

310 JOHN GRISHAM

Texas. Judy made a brief statement about the case, then asked Mr. Adam
Hall from Chicago if he was ready to proceed. He stood nervously, his
knees rubber-like, his bowels jumping, his voice high and nervous, and
he said that, yes, in fact he was ready to go. He made it to the podium in
the center of the room and looked up, way up, it seemed, at the panel
behind the bench.

The green light beside him came on, and he assumed correctly this
meant to get things started. The room was silent. The judges glared
down at him. He cleared his throat, glanced at the portraits of dead
honorables hanging on the wall, and plunged into a vicious attack on the
gas chamber as a means of execution.

He avoided eye contact with the three of them, and for five minutes
or so was allowed to repeat what he'd already submitted in his brief. It
was post-lunch, in the heat of the summer, and it took a few minutes for
the judges to shrug off the cobwebs.

"Mr. HaU, I think you're just repeating what you've already said in
your brief," Judy said testily. "We're quite capable of reading, Mr. HaU."

Mr. HaU took it weU, and thought to himself that this was his twenty
minutes, and if he wanted to pick his nose and recite the alphabet then
he should be aUowed to do so. For twenty minutes. As green as he was,
Adam had heard this comment before from an appeUate judge. It hap-
pened while he was in law school and watching a case being argued. It
was standard fare in oral argument.

"Yes, Your Honor," Adam said, carefuUy avoiding any reference to
gender. He then moved on to discuss the effects of cyanide gas on
laboratory rats, a study not included in his brief The experiments had
been conducted a year ago by some chemists in Sweden for the purpose
of proving that humans do not die instantly when they inhale the poison.
It had been funded by a European organization working to abolish the
death penalty in America.

The rats went into seizures and convulsed. Their lungs and hearts
stopped and started erraticaUy for several minutes. The gas burst blood
vessels throughout their bodies, including their brains. Their muscles
quivered uncontroUably. They saHvated and squeaked.

The obvious point of the study was that the rats did not die quickly,
but in fact suffered a great deal. The tests were conducted with scientific
integrity. Appropriate doses were given to the smaU animals. On the
average, it took almost ten minutes for death to occur. Adam labored
over the details, and as he warmed to his presentation his nerves settled a
bit. The judges were not only listening, but seemed to be enjoying this
discussion of dying rats.

THE CHAMBER 311

Adam had found the study in a footnote to a recent North Carolina
case. It was in the fine print, and had not been widely reported.

"Now, let me get this straight," Robichaux interrupted in a high-
pitched voice. "You don't want your client to die in the gas chamber
because it's a cruel way to go, but are you telling us you don't mind if
he's executed by lethal injection?"

"No, Your Honor. That's not what I'm saying. I do not want my
client executed by any method."

"But lethal injection is the least offensive?"

"AH methods are offensive, but lethal injection seems to be the least
cruel. There's no doubt the gas chamber is a horrible way to die."

"Worse than being bombed? Blown up by dynamite?"

A heavy silence fell over the courtroom as Robichaux's words settled
in. He had emphasized the word "dynamite," and Adam struggled for
something appropriate. McNeely shot a nasty look at his colleague on
the other side of the bench.

It was a cheap shot, and Adam was furious. He controlled his temper,
and said firmly, "We're talking about methods of execution. Your
Honor, not the crimes that send men to death row."

"Why don't you want to talk about the crime?"

"Because the crime is not an issue here. Because I have only twenty
minutes, and my client has only twelve days."

"Perhaps your client shouldn't have been planting bombs?"

"Of course not. But he was convicted of his crime, and now he faces
death in the gas chamber. Our point is that the chamber is a cruel way to
execute people."

"What about the electric chair?"

"The same argument applies. There have been some hideous cases of
people suffering terribly in the chair before they died."

"What about a firing squad?"

"Sounds cruel to me."

"And hanging?"

"I don't know much about hanging, but it too sounds awfully cruel."

"But you like the idea of lethal injection?"

"I didn't say I like it. I believe I said it was not as cruel as the other
methods."

Justice McNeely interrupted and asked, "Mr. Hall, why did Missis-
sippi switch from the gas chamber to lethal injection?"

This was covered thoroughly in the lawsuit and the brief, and Adam
sensed immediately that McNeely was a friend. "I've condensed the
legislative history of the law in my brief, Your Honor, but it was done

312 JOHN GRISHAM

principally to facilitate executions. The legislature admitted it was an
easier way to die, and so to sidestep constitutional challenges such as this
one it changed the method."

"So the State has effectively admitted that there is a better way to
execute people?"

"Yes sir. But the law took effect in 1984, and applies only to those
inmates convicted afterward. It does not apply to Sam CayhaU."

"I understand that. You're asking us to strike down the gas chamber as
a method. What happens if we do? What happens to your cHent and
those like him who were convicted prior to 1984? Do they faU through
the cracks? There is no provision in the law to execute them by lethal
injection."

Adam was anticipating the obvious question. Sam had already asked it.
"I can't answer that. Your Honor, except to say that I have great confi-
dence in the Mississippi Legislature's abihty and willingness to pass a new
law covering my client and those in his position."

Judge Judy inserted herself at this point. "Assuming they do, Mr. HaU,
what wiU you argue when you return here in three years?"

Thankfully, the yellow hght came on, and Adam had only one minute
remaining. "I'U think of something," he said with a grin. "Just give me
time."

"We've already seen a case like this, Mr. Hall," Robichaux said. "In
fact, it's cited in your brief. A Texas case."

"Yes, Your Honor. I'm asking the court to reconsider its decision on
this issue. Virtually every state with a gas chamber or an electric chair has
switched to lethal injection. The reason is obvious."

He had a few seconds left, but decided it was a good place to stop. He
didn't want another question. "Thank you," he said, and walked confi-
dently back to his seat. It was over. He had held his breakfast, and
performed quite well for a rookie. It would be easier the next time.

Roxburgh was wooden and methodical, and thoroughly prepared. He
tried a few one-liners about rats and the crimes they commit, but it was
a dismal effort at humor. McNeely peppered him with similar questions
about why the states were rushing to lethal injection. Roxburgh stuck to
his guns, and recited a long line of cases where the various federal cir-
cuits had endorsed death by gas, electricity, hanging, and firing squads.
The established law was on his side, and he made the most of it. His
twenty minutes raced by, and he returned to his seat as quickly as Adam
had.

Judge Judy talked briefly about the urgency of this matter, and prom-
ised a ruling within days. Everyone rose in unison, and the three judges

THE CHAMBER 313

disappeared from the bench. The court crier declared matters to be in
recess until Monday morning.

Adam shook hands with Roxburgh and made it through the doors
before a reporter stopped him. He was with a paper in Jackson, and just
had a couple of questions. Adam was polite, but declined comment. He
then did the same for two more reporters. Roxburgh, typically, had
things to say, and as Adam walked away, the reporters surrounded the
Attorney General and shoved recorders near his face.

Adam wanted to leave the building. He stepped into the tropical heat,
and quickly covered his eyes with sunglasses. "Have you had lunch?" a
voice asked from close behind. It was Lucas Mann, in aviator sunglasses.
They shook hands between the columns.

"I couldn't eat," Adam admitted.

"You did fme. It's quite nerve-racking, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Why are you here?"

"It's part of my job. The warden asked me to fly down and watch the
argument. We'll wait until there's a ruling before we start preparations.
Let's go eat."

Adam's driver stopped the car at the curb, and they got in.

"Do you know the city?" Mann asked.

"No. This is my first visit."

"The Bon Ton Cafe," Mann told the driver. "It's a wonderfiil old
place just around the corner. Nice car."

"The benefits of working for a wealthy firm."

LUNCH BEGAN with a novelty — raw oysters on the half shell. Adam
had heard of them before, but had never been tempted. Mann artfully
demonstrated the proper blending of horseradish, lemon juice. Tabasco,
and cocktail sauce, then dropped the first oyster into the mixture. It was
then dehcately placed on a cracker and eaten in one bite. Adam's first
oyster slid off the cracker and onto the table, but his second slid properly
down his throat.

"Don't chew it," Mann instructed. "Just let it slither down." The
next ten slithered down, and not soon enough for Adam. He was happy
when the dozen shells on his plate were empty. They sipped Dixie beer
and waited for shrimp remoulade.

"I saw where you're claiming ineffective assistance of counsel," Mann
said, nibbling on a cracker.

"I'm sure we'U be filing everything from now on."
"The supreme court didn't waste any time with it."
"No, they didn't. Seems as if they're tired of Sam Cayhall. I'll file it in
district court today, but I don't expect any reHef from Slattery."

314 JOHN GRISHAM

"I wouldn't either."

"What are my odds, with twelve days to go?"

"Getting slimmer by the day, but things are wildly unpredictable.
Probably stiU around fifty-fifty. A few years back we came very close
with Stockholm Turner. With two weeks to go, it looked certain. With
a week to go, there was simply nothing else for him to file. He had a
decent lawyer, but the appeals had run. He was given his last meal,
and — "

"And his conjugal visit, with two prostitutes."

"How'd you know?"

"Sam told me all about it."

"It's true. He got a last minute stay, and now he's years away from the
chamber. You never know^."

"But what's your gut feeling?"

Mann took a long drink of beer and leaned backward as two large
platters of shrimp remoulade were placed before them. "I don't have gut
feelings when it comes to executions. Anything can happen. Just keep
filing writs and appeals. It becomes a marathon. You can't give up. The
lawyer for Jumbo Parris collapsed with twelve hours to go, and was in a
hospital bed when his cHent went down."

Adam chewed on a boiled shrimp and washed it down with beer.
"The governor wants me to talk to him. Should I?"

"What does your client want?"

"What do you think? He hates the governor. He has forbidden me to
talk to him."

"You have to ask for a clemency hearing. That's standard practice."

"How well do you know McAllister?"

"Not very weU. He's a poHtical animal with great ambitions, and I
wouldn't trust him for a minute. He does, however, have the power to
grant clemency. He can commute the death sentence. He can impose
life, or he can set him firee. The statute grants broad discretionary au-
thority to the governor. He'll probably be your last hope."

"God help us."

"How's the remoulade?" Mann asked with a mouthful.

"Delicious."

They busied themselves with eating for a while. Adam was thankful
for the company and conversation, but decided to limit the talk to ap-
peals and strategy. He liked Lucas Mann, but his client did not. As Sam
would say, Mann worked for the state and the state was working to
execute him.

THE CHAMBER 315

A LATE AFTERNOON FLIGHT would have taken him back to
Memphis by six-thirty, long before dark. And once there he could' ve
killed an hour or so at the office before returning to Lee's. But he wasn't
up to it. He had a fancy room in a modern hotel by the river, paid for
without question by the boys at Kravitz & Bane. All expenses were
covered. He'd never seen the French Quarter.

And so he awoke at six after a three-hour nap brought on by three
Dixies for lunch and a bad night's rest. He was lying across the bed with
his shoes on, and he studied the ceiling fan for half an hour before he
moved. The sleep had been heavy.

Lee did not answer the phone. He left a message on her recorder, and
hoped she was not drinking. And if she was, then he hoped she'd locked
herself in her room where she couldn't hurt anyone. He brushed his
teeth and hair, and rode an elevator to the spacious lobby where a jazz
band performed for happy hour. Five-cent oysters on the half shell were
being hawked from a corner bar.

He walked in the sweltering heat along Canal Street until he came to
Royal, where he took a right and was soon lost in a throng of tourists.
Friday night was coming to life in the Quarter. He gawked at the strip
clubs, trying desperately for a peek inside. He was stopped cold by an
open door which revealed a row of male strippers on a stage — men who
looked like beautiful women. He ate an egg roll on a stick from a
Chinese carryout. He stepped around a wino vomiting in the street. He
spent an hour at a small table in a jazz club, listening to a delightful
combo and sipping a four-dollar beer. When it was dark, he walked to
Jackson Square and watched the artists pack up their easels and leave.
The street musicians and dancers were out in force in front of an old
cathedral, and he clapped for an amazing string quartet comprised of
Tulane students. People were everywhere, drinking and eating and danc-
ing, enjoying the festiveness of the French Quarter.

He bought a dish of vanilla ice cream, and headed for Canal. On
another night and under far different circumstances, he might be
tempted to take in a strip show, sitting in the rear, of course, where no
one could see him, or he might hang out in a trendy bar looking for
lonely, beautiful women.

But not tonight. The drunks reminded him of Lee, and he wished
he'd returned to Memphis to see her. The music and laughter reminded
him of Sam, who at this very moment was sitting in a humid oven,
staring at the bars and counting the days, hoping and perhaps praying
now that his lawyer might work a miracle. Sam would never see New
Orleans, never again eat oysters or red beans and rice, never taste a cold
beer or a good coffee. He would never hear jazz or watch artists paint.

316 JOHN GRISHAM

He would never again fly on a plane or stay in a nice hotel. He would
never fish or drive or do a thousand things free people take for granted.

Even if Sam Hved past August 8, he would simply continue the process
of dying a little each day.

Adam left the Quarter and walked hurriedly to his hotel. He needed
rest. The marathon was about to begin.

THIRTY-FOUR

THE GUARD NAMED TINY handcufFed Sam and led him off
Tier A. Sam carried a plastic bag filled tighdy with the last two
weeks' worth of fan mail. For most of his career as a death row
inmate, he had averaged a handful of letters a month from supporters —
Klansmen and their sympathizers, racial purists, anti-Semites, all types of
bigots. For a couple of years he had answered these letters, but with time
had grown weary of it. What was the benefit? To some he was a hero,
but the more he swapped words with his admirers the wackier they
became. There were a lot of nuts out there. The idea had crossed his
mind that perhaps he was safer on the Row than in the free world.

Mail had been declared to be a right by the federal court, not a
privilege. Thus, it could not be taken away. It could, however, be regu-
lated. Each letter was opened by an inspector unless the envelope clearly
was from an attorney. Unless an inmate was under mail censorship, the
letters were not read. They were deUvered to the Row in due course and
dispensed to the inmates. Boxes and packages were also opened and
inspected.

The thought of losing Sam was frightening to many fanatics, and his
mail had picked up dramatically since the Fifth Circuit lifted his stay.
They offered their unwavering support, and their prayers. A few offered
money. Their letters tended to run long as they invariably blasted Jews
and blacks and liberals and other conspirators. Some bitched about taxes,
gun control, the national debt. Some delivered sermons.

Sam was tired of the letters. He was averaging six per day. He placed
them on the counter as the handcuffs were removed, then asked the

318 JOHN GRISHAM

guard to unlock a small door in the screen. The guard shoved the plastic
bag through the door and Adam took it on the other side. The guard
left, locking the door behind.

"What's this?" Adam asked, holding the bag.

"Fan mail." Sam took his regular seat and Ht a cigarette.

"What am I supposed to do with it?"

"Read it. Burn it. I don't care. I was cleaning my cell this morning
and the stuff got in the way. I understand you were in New Orleans
yesterday. Tell me about it."

Adam placed the letters on a chair, and sat across from Sam. The
temperature outside was a hundred and two, and not much cooler inside
the visitors' room. It was Saturday, and Adam was dressed in jeans,
loafers, and a very Hght cotton polo. "The Fifth Circuit called Thursday,
and said they wanted to hear from me on Friday. I went down, dazzled
them with my briUiance, and flew back to Memphis this morning."

"When do they rule?"

"Soon."

"A three-judge panel?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Judy, Robichaux, and McNeely."

Sam contemplated the names for a moment. "McNeely's an old war-
rior who'll help us. Judy's a conservative bitch, oops, sorry, I mean a
conservative Female-American, a Republican appointee. I doubt if she'll
help. I'm not familiar with Robichaux. Where's he from?"

"Southern Louisiana."

"Ah, a Cajun- American."

"I guess. He's a hard-ass. He won't help."

"Then we'U lose by two to one. I thought you said you dazzled them
"with your brilliance."

"We haven't lost yet." Adam w^as surprised to hear Sam speak with
such familiarity about the individual judges. But then, he'd been study-
ing the court for many years.

"Where's the ineffective counsel claim?" Sam asked.

"Still in district court here. It's a few days behind the other."

"Let's file something else, okay."

"I'm working on it."

"Work fast. I've got eleven days. There's a calendar on my wall, and I
spend at least three hours a day staring at it. When I wake up in the
morning I make a big X over the date for the day before. I've got a circle
around August 8. My X's are getting closer to the circle. Do some-
thing."

THE CHAMBER 319

"I'm working, okay. In fact, I'm developing a new theory of attack."

"Atta boy."

"I think we can prove you're mentally unbalanced."

"I've been considering that."

"You're old. You're senile. You're too calm about this. Something
must be wrong. You're unable to comprehend the reason for your exe-
cution."

"We've been reading the same cases."

"Goodman knows an expert who'll say anything for a fee. We're
considering bringing him down here to examine you."

"Wonderful. I'll puU out my hair and chase butterflies around the
room."

"I think we can make a hard run at a mental incompetency claim."

"I agree. Go for it. Let's file lots of things."

"I'U do It."

Sam puffed and pondered for a few minutes. They were both sweat-
ing, and Adam needed fresh air. He needed to get in his car with the
windows up and turn the air on high.

"When are you coming back?" Sam asked.

"Monday. Listen, Sam, this is not a pleasant subject, but we need to
address it. You're gonna die one of these days. It might be on August 8,
or it might be five years from now. At the rate you're smoking, you can't
last for long."

"Smoking is not my most pressing health concern."

"I know. But your family, Lee and I, need to make some burial
arrangements. It can't be done overnight."

Sam stared at the rows of tiny triangles in the screen. Adam scribbled
on a legal pad. The air conditioner spewed and hissed, accomplishing
Htde.

"Your grandmother was a fine lady, Adam. I'm sorry you didn't know
her. She deserved better than me."

"Lee took me to her grave."

"I caused her a lot of suffering, and she bore it well. Bury me next to
her, and maybe I can teU her I'm sorry."

"I'll take care of it."

"Do that. How will you pay for the plot?"

"I can handle it, Sam."

"I don't have any money, Adam. I lost it years ago, for reasons which
are probably obvious. I lost the land and the house, so there are no assets
to leave behind."

"Do you have a will?"

"Yes. I prepared it myself."

320 JOHN GRISHAM

"We'll look at it next week."

"You promise you'U be here Monday."

"I promise, Sam. Can I bring you anything?"

Sam hesitated for a second and almost seemed embarrassed. "You
know what I'd really like?" he asked with a childish grin.

"What? Anything, Sam."

"When I was a kid, the greatest thriU in Hfe was an Eskimo Pie."

"An Eskimo Pie?"

"Yeah, it's a little ice cream, treat on a stick. VaniUa, with a chocolate
coating. I ate them until I came to this place. I think they still make
them."

"An Eskimo Pie?" Adam repeated.

"Yeah. I can still taste it. The greatest ice cream in the world. Can you
imagine how good one would taste right now in this oven?"

"Then, Sam, you shaU have an Eskimo Pie."

"Bring more than one."

"I'U bring a dozen. We'U eat 'em right here w^hile we sweat."

SAM'S SECOND VISITOR on Saturday was not expected. He stopped
at the guard station by the front gate, and produced a North Carolina
driver's license with his picture on it. He explained to the guard that he
was the brother of Sam Cayhall, and had been told he could visit Sam on
death row at his convenience betvv^een now and the scheduled execution.
He had talked to a Mr. Holland somewhere deep in Administration
yesterday, and Mr. Holland had assured him the visitation rules were
relaxed for Sam CayhaU. He could visit anytime between 8 a.m. and 5
P.M., any day of the week. The guard stepped inside and made a phone
caU.

Five minutes passed as the visitor sat patiently in his rented car. The
guard made two more calls, then copied the registration number of the
car onto her clipboard. She instructed the visitor to park a few^ feet away,
lock his car, and wait by the guard station. He did so, and within a few
minutes a white prison van appeared. An armed, uniformed guard was
behind the ^vheel, and he motioned for the visitor to get in.

The van was cleared through the double gates at MSU, and driven to
the front entrance where two other guards waited. They frisked him on
the steps. He was carrying no packages or bags.

They led him around the corner and into the empty visitors' room.
He took a seat near the middle of the screen. "We'U get Sam," one of
the guards said. "Take about five minutes."

Sam was typing a letter when the guards stopped at his door. "Let's
go, Sam. You have a visitor."

THE CHAMBER 321

He Stopped typing and stared at them. His fan was blowing hard and
his television was tuned to a baseball game. "Who is it?" he snapped.

"Your brother."

Sam gently placed the typewriter on the bookshelf and grabbed his
jumpsuit. "Which brother?"

"We didn't ask any questions, Sam. Just your brother. Now come
on."

They handcuffed him and he followed them along the tier. Sam once
had three brothers, but his oldest had died of a heart attack before Sam
was sent to prison. Donnie, the youngest at age sixty-one, now lived
near Durham, North Carolina. Albert, age sixty-seven, was in bad health
and lived deep in the woods of rural Ford County. Donnie sent the
cigarettes each month, along with a few dollars and an occasional note.
Albert hadn't written in seven years. A spinster aunt had written until
her death in 1985. The rest of the Cayhalls had forgotten Sam.

It had to be Donnie, he said to himself. Donnie was the only one who
cared enough to visit. He hadn't seen him in two years, and he stepped
lighter as they neared the door to the visitors' room. What a pleasant
surprise.

Sam stepped through the door and looked at the man sitting on the
other side of the screen. It was a face he didn't recognize. He glanced
around the room, and confirmed it was empty except for this visitor,
who at the moment was staring at Sam with a cool and even gaze. The
guards watched closely as they sprung the handcuffs, so Sam smiled and
nodded at the man. Then he stared at the guards until they left the room
and shut the door. Sam sat opposite his visitor, lit a cigarette, and said
nothing.

There was something familiar about him, but he couldn't identify
him. They watched each other through the opening in the screen.

"Do I know you?" Sam finally asked.

"Yes," the man answered.

"From where?"

"From the past, Sam. From Greenville and Jackson and Vicksburg.
From the synagogue and the real estate office and the Pinder home and
Marvin Kramer's."

"Wedge?"

The man nodded slowly, and Sam closed his eyes and exhaled at the
ceiling. He dropped his cigarette and slumped in his chair. "God, I was
hoping you were dead."

"Too bad."

Sam glared wildly at him. "You son of a bitch," he said with clenched
teeth. "Son of a bitch. I've hoped and dreamed for twenty-three years

322 JOHN GRISHAM

that you were dead. I've killed you a million times myself, with my bare
hands, with sticks and knives and every weapon known to man. I've
watched you bleed and I've heard you scream for mercy."

"Sorry. Here I am, Sam."

"I hate you more than any person has ever been hated. If I had a gun
right now I'd blow your sorry ass to heU and back. I'd pump your head
full of lead and laugh until I cried. God, how I hate you."

"Do you treat aU your visitors Hke this, Sam?"

"What do you want. Wedge?"

"Can they hear us in here?"

"They don't give a damn what we're saying."

"But this place could be wired, you know."

"Then leave, fool, just leave."

"I will in a minute. But first I just wanted to say that I'm here, and
I'm watching things real close, and I'm very pleased that my name has
not been mentioned. I certainly hope this continues. I've been very
effective at keeping people quiet."

"You're very subtle."

"Just take it Hke a man, Sam. Die with dignity. You were with me.
You were an accompUce and a conspirator, and under the law you're just
as guilty as me. Sure I'm a free man, but who said Hfe is fair. Just go on
and take our Httle secret to your grave, and no one gets hurt, okay?"

"Where have you been?"

"Everywhere. My name's not really Wedge, Sam, so don't get any
ideas. It was never Wedge. Not even Dogan knew my real name. I was
drafted in 1966, and I didn't want to go to Vietnam. So I went to
Canada and came back to the underground. Been there ever since. I
don't exist, Sam."

"You should be sitting over here."

"No, you're wrong. I shouldn't, and neither should you. You were an
idiot for going back to Greenville. The FBI was clueless. They never
would' ve caught us. I was too smart. Dogan was too smart. You, how-
ever, happened to be the weak link. It would' ve been the last bombing
too, you know, with the dead bodies and all. It was time to quit. I fled
the country and would' ve never returned to this miserable place. You
would' ve gone home to your chickens and cows. Who knows what
Dogan would' ve done. But the reason you're sitting over there, Sam, is
because you were a dumbass."

"And you're a dumbass for coming here today."

"Not reaUy. No one would beHeve you if you started screaming. HeU,
they aU think you're crazy anyway. But just the same, I'd rather keep

THE CHAMBER 323

things the way they are. I don't need the hassle. Just accept what's

coming, Sam, and do it quietly."

Sam carefuUy lit another cigarette, and thumped the ashes in the floor.

"Leave, Wedge. And don't ever come back."

"Sure. I hate to say it, Sam, but I hope they gas you."

Sam stood and walked to the door behind him. A guard opened it,

and took him away.

THEY SAT IN THE REAR of the cinema and ate popcorn like t\vo
teenagers. The movie was Adam's idea. She'd spent three days in her
room, with the virus, and by Saturday morning the binge was over. He
had selected a family restaurant for dinner, one with quick food and no
alcohol on the menu. She'd devoured pecan waffles with whipped
cream.

The movie was a western, politically correct with the Indians as the
good guys and the cowboys as scum. All pale faces were evil and eventu-
ally killed. Lee drank two large Dr. Peppers. Her hair was clean and
puUed back over her ears. Her eyes were clear and pretty again. Her face
was made up and the wounds of the past week were hidden. She was as
cool as ever in jeans and cotton button-down. And she was sober.

Little had been said about last Thursday night when Adam slept by the
door. They had agreed to discuss it later, at some distant point in the
future when she could handle it. That was fine with him. She was
walking a shaky tightrope, teetering on the edge of another plunge into
the blackness of dipsomania. He would protect her from torment and
distress. He would make things pleasant and enjoyable. No more talk of
Sam and his killings. No more talk of Eddie. No more Cayhall family
history.

She was his aunt, and he loved her dearly. She was fragile and sick,
and she needed his strong voice and broad shoulders.

THIRTY-FIVE

PHILLIP NAIFEH awoke in the early hours of Sunday morning
with severe chest pains, and was rushed to the hospital in Cleve-
land. He Hved in a modern home on the grounds at Parchman
with his wife of forty-one years. The ambulance ride took twenty min-
utes, and he was stable by the time he entered the emergency room on a
gurney.

His wife waited anxiously in the corridor as the nurses scurried about.
She had waited there before, three years earlier with the first heart at-
tack. A somber-faced young doctor explained that it was a mild one, that
he was quite steady and secure and resting comfortably with the aid of
medication. He would be monitored diHgently for the next twenty-four
hours, and if things went as expected he'd be home in less than a week.

He was absolutely forbidden from getting near Parchman, and could
have nothing to do with the Cayhall execution. Not even a phone call
from his bed.

SLEEP WAS BECOMING a batde. Adam habitually read for an hour or
so in bed, and had learned in law school that legal pubHcations were
marvelous sleeping aids. Now, however, the more he read the more he
worried. His mind was burdened with the events of the past two weeks
— ^the people he'd met, the things he'd learned, the places he'd been.
And his mind raced wildly with what was to come.

He slept fitfuUy Saturday night, and was awake for long stretches of
time. When he finally awoke for the last time, the sun was up. It was
almost eight o'clock. Lee had mentioned the possibiHty of another foray

THE CHAMBER 325

into the kitchen. She had once been quite good with sausage and eggs,
she'd said, and anybody could handle canned biscuits, but as he puUed up
his jeans and slipped on a tee shirt, he could smell nothing.

The kitchen was quiet. He called her name as he examined the coffee
pot — half full. Her bedroom door was open and the lights were off He
quickly checked every room. She was not on the patio sipping coffee
and reading the paper. A sick feeling came over him and grew worse
with each empty room. He ran to the parking lot — no sign of her car.
He stepped barefoot across the hot asphalt and asked the security guard
when she'd left. He checked a cHpboard, and said it had been almost two
hours ago. She appeared to be fine, he said.

He found it on a sofa in the den, a three-inch stack of news and ads
known as the Sunday edition of the Memphis Press. It had been left in a
neat pile with the Metro section on top. Lee's face was on the front of
this section, in a photo taken at a charity ball years earlier. It was a close-
up of Mr. and Mrs. Phelps Booth, all smiles for the camera. Lee was
smashing in a strapless black dress. Phelps was decorated fashionably in
black tie. They seemed to be a wonderfully happy couple.

The story was Todd Marks' latest exploitation of the Cayhall mess,
and with each report the series was becoming more tabloid-like. It
started friendly enough, with a weekly summary of the events swirling
around the execution. The same voices were heard — McAllister's, Rox-
burgh's, Lucas Mann's, and Naifeh's steady "no comments." Then it
turned mean-spirited quickly as it gleefully exposed Lee Cayhall Booth:
prominent Memphis socialite, wife of important banker Phelps Booth of
the renowned and rich Booth family, community volunteer, aunt of
Adam Hall, and, believe it or not, daughter of the infamous Sam
CayhaU!

The story was written as if Lee herself were guilty of a terrible crime.
It quoted alleged friends, unnamed of course, as being shocked to learn
her true identity. It talked about the Booth family and its money, and
pondered how a blue blood such as Phelps could stoop to marry into a
clan such as the CayhaUs. It mentioned their son Walt, and again quoted
unnamed sources who speculated about his refusal to return to Mem-
phis. Walt had never married, it reported breathlessly, and lived in Am-
sterdam.

And then, worst of all, it quoted another nameless source and told the
story of a charity event not too many years ago at which Lee and Phelps
Booth were present and sat at a table near Ruth Kramer. The source had
also been at the dinner, and distinctly remembered where these people
had sat. The source was a friend of Ruth's and an acquaintance of Lee's,
and was just plain shocked to learn that Lee had such a father.

326 JOHN GRISHAM

A smaller photo of Ruth Kramer accompanied the story. She was an
attractive woman in her early fifties.

After the sensational uncovering of Lee, the story went on to summa-
rize Friday's oral argument in New Orleans and the latest maneuverings
of the Cayhall defense.

Taken as a whole, it was sleazy narrative that accompHshed nothing
except that it pushed the daily murder summaries onto the second page.

Adam threw the paper on the floor and sipped coffee. She had awak-
ened on this warm Sunday, clean and sober for the first time in days,
probably in much better spirits, and had settled on the sofa with a firesh
cup of coffee and the paper. Within minutes she'd been slapped in the
face and kicked in the stomach, and now she'd left again. Where did she
go during these times? Where was her sanctuary? Certainly she stayed
away from Phelps. Maybe she had a boyfriend somewhere who took her
in and gave her comfort, but that was doubtful. He prayed she wasn't
driving the streets aimlessly with a bottle in her hand.

No doubt, things were hopping around the Booth estates this morn-
ing. Their dirty Httle secret was out, plastered on the front page for the
world to see. How would they cope with the humiliation? Imagine, a
Booth marrying and producing offspring with such white trash, and now
everyone knew. The family might never recover. Madame Booth was
certainly distressed, and probably bedridden by now.

Good for them, Adam thought. He showered and changed clothes,
then lowered the top on the Saab. He didn't expect to see Lee's maroon
Jaguar on the deserted streets of Memphis, but he drove around anyway.
He started at Front Street near the river, and with Springsteen blaring
from the speakers he randomly made his way east, past the hospitals on
Union, through the stately homes of midtown, and back to the projects
near Auburn House. Of course he didn't find her, but the drive was
refreshing. By noon, the traffic had resumed, and Adam went to the
office.

SAM'S ONLY GUEST on Sunday was again an unexpected one. He
rubbed his wrists when the handcuffs were removed, and sat across the
screen from the gray-haired man with a jolly face and a warm smile.

"Mr. Cayhall, my name is Ralph Griffin, and I'm the chaplain here at
Parchman. I'm new, so we haven't met."
Sam nodded, and said, "Nice to meet you."
"My pleasure. I'm sure you knew my predecessor."
"Ah yes, the Right Reverend Rucker. Where is he now?"
"Retired."
"Good. I never cared for him. I doubt if he makes it to heaven."

THE CHAMBER 327

"Yes, I've heard he wasn't too popular."

"Popular? He was despised by everyone here. For some reason we
didn't trust him. Don't know why. Could be because he was in favor of
the death penalty. Can you imagine? He was called by God to minister
to us, yet he believed we should die. Said it was in the Scriptures. You
know, the eye for an eye routine."

"I've heard that before."

"I'm sure you have. What kind of preacher are you? What denomina-
tion?"

"I was ordained in a Baptist church, but I'm sort of nondenomina-
tional now. I think the Lord's probably frustrated with all this sectarian-
ism.

"He's frustrated with me too, you know."

"How's that?"

"You're familiar with Randy Dupree, an inmate here. Just down the
tier from me. Rape and murder."

"Yes. I've read his file. He was a preacher at one time."

"We call him Preacher Boy, and he's recently acquired the spiritual
gift of interpreting dreams. He also sings and heals. He'd probably play
with snakes if they allowed it. You know, take up the serpents, from the
book of Mark, sixteenth chapter, eighteenth verse. Anyway, he just fin-
ished this long dream, took over a month, sort of like a mini-series, and
it eventuaDy was revealed to him that I will in fact be executed, and that
God is waiting for me to clean up my act."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea, you know. To get things in order."

"What's the rush? I have ten days."

"So you believe in God?"

"Yes, I do. Do you believe in the death penalty?"

"No, I don't."

Sam studied him for a while, then said, "Are you serious?"

"Killing is wrong, Mr. Cayhall. If in fact you are guilty of your crime,
then you were wrong to kill. It's also wrong for the government to kill
you.

"Hallelujah, brother."

"I've never been convinced that Jesus wanted us to kill as a punish-
ment. He didn't teach that. He taught love and forgiveness."

"That's the way I read the Bible. How in heU did you get a job here?"

"I have a cousin in the state senate."

Sam smiled and chuckled at this response. "You won't last long.
You're too honest."

"No. My cousin is the chairman of the Committee on Corrections,
and rather powerful."

328 JOHN GRISHAM

"Then you'd better pray he gets reelected."

"I do every morning. I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself.
I'd like to talk to you during the next few days. I'd Hke to pray with you
if you want. I've never been through an execution before."

"Neither have I."

"Does it scare you?"

"I'm an old man, Reverend. I'll be seventy in a few months, if I make
it. At times, the thought of dying is quite pleasant. Leaving this godfor-
saken place will be a relief"

"But you're stiU fighting."

"Sure, though sometimes I don't know why. It's Uke a long bout with
cancer. You gradually decline and grow weak. You die a Httle each day,
and you reach the point where death would be welcome. But no one
really wants to die. Not even me."

"I've read about your grandson. That must be heartwarming. I know
you're proud of him."

Sam smiled and looked at the floor.

"Anyway," the reverend continued, "I'U be around. Would you like
for me to come back tomorrow?"

"That would be nice. Let me do some thinking, okay?"

"Sure. You know the procedures around here, don't you? During
your last few hours you're allowed to have only two people present. Your
lawyer and your spiritual adviser. I'U be honored to stay with you."

"Thanks. And can you find the time to talk to Randy Dupree? The
poor kid is cracking up, and he reaUy needs help."

"I'U do it tomorrow."

"Thanks."

ADAM WATCHED a rented movie by himself, with the phone nearby.
There had been no word from Lee. At ten, he made two caUs to the
West Coast. The first was to his mother in Portland. She Avas subdued,
but glad to hear from him, she said. She did not ask about Sam, and
Adam did not offer. He reported that he was working hard, that he was
hopeful, and that he would, in aU HkeUhood, return to Chicago in a
couple of weeks. She'd seen a few stories in the papers, and she was
thinking about him. Lee was fine, Adam said.

The second caU was to his younger sister. Carmen, in Berkeley. A
male voice answered the phone in her apartment, Kevin somebody if
Adam remembered correctly, a steady companion for several years now.
Carmen was soon on the phone, and seemed anxious to hear about
events in Mississippi. She too had foUowed the news closely, and Adam
put an optimistic spin on things. She was worried about him down there

THE CHAMBER 329

in the midst of all those horrible Kluckers and racists. Adam insisted he
was safe, things were quite peaceful, actually. The people were surpris-
ingly gentle and laid-back. He was staying at Lee's and they were making
the best of it. To Adam's surprise, she wanted to know about Sam —
what was he like, his appearance, his attitude, his willingness to talk
about Eddie. She asked if she should fly down and see Sam before
August 8, a meeting Adam had not contemplated. Adam said he would
think about it, and that he would ask Sam.

He fell asleep on the sofa, with the television on.

At three-thirty Monday morning, he was awakened by the phone. A
voice he'd never heard before crisply identified himself as Phelps Booth.
"You must be Adam," he said.

Adam sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Yes, that's me."

"Have you seen Lee?" Phelps asked, neither calm nor urgent.

Adam glanced at a clock on the wall above the television. "No.
What's the matter?"

"Well, she's in trouble. The police called me about an hour ago. They
picked her up for drunk driving at eight-twenty last night, and took her
to jail."

"Oh no," Adam said.

"This is not the first time. She was taken in, refused the breath test of
course, and was put in the drunk tank for five hours. She listed my name
on the paperwork, so the cops called me. I ran downtown to the jail, and
she had already posted bail and walked out. I thought maybe she'd called
you."

"No. She was not here when I woke up yesterday morning, and this is
the first thing I've heard. Who would she call?"

"Who knows? I hate to start calling her friends and waking them up.
Maybe we should just wait."

Adam was uncomfortable with his sudden inclusion into the decision
making. These people had been married, for better or for worse, for
almost thirty years, and they had obviously been through this before.
How was he supposed to know what to do? "She didn't drive away from
the jail, did she?" he asked timidly, certain of the answer.

''Of course not. Someone picked her up. Which brings up another
problem. We need to get her car. It's in a lot by the jail. I've already paid
the towing charges."

"Do you have a key?"

"Yes. Can you help me get it?"

Adam suddenly remembered the newspaper story with the smiling
photo of Phelps and Lee, and he also remembered his speculation about
the Booth family's reaction to it. He was certain most of the blame and

330 JOHN GRISHAM

venom had been directed at him. If he'd stayed in Chicago, none of this
would' ve happened.

"Sure. Just tell me what — "

"Go wait by the guardhouse. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Adam brushed his teeth and laced up his Nikes, and spent fifteen
minutes chatting about this and that with Willis, the guard, at the gate. A
black Mercedes, the longest model in history, approached and stopped.
Adam said good-bye to Willis, and got in the car.

They shook hands because it was the polite thing to do. Phelps was
dressed in a white jogging suit and wore a Cubs cap. He drove slowly on
the empty street. "I guess Lee has told you some things about me," he
said, without a trace of concern or regret.

"A few things," Adam said carefuUy.

"Well, there's a lot to tell, so I'm not going to ask what subjects she's
covered."

A very good idea, Adam thought. "It's probably best if we just talk
about baseball or something. I take it you're a Cubs fan."

"Always a Cubs fan. You?"

"Sure. This is my first season in Chicago, and I've been to Wrigley a
dozen times. I live pretty close to the park."

"ReaUy. I go up three or four times a year. I have a friend with a box.
Been doing it for years. Who's your favorite player?"

"Sandberg, I guess. How about you?"

"I Hke the old guys. Ernie Banks and Ron Santo. Those were the
good days of baseball, when the players had loyalty and you knew who'd
be on your team from one year to the next. Now, you never know. I
love the game, but greed's corrupted it."

It struck Adam as odd that Phelps Booth would denounce greed.
"Maybe, but the owners wrote the book on greed for the first hundred
years of baseball. What's wrong with the players asking for aU the money
they can get?"

"Who's worth five million a year?"

"Nobody. But if rock stars make fifty, what's wrong with baseball
players making a few million? It's entertainment. The players are the
game, not the owners. I go to Wrigley to see the players, not because the
Tribune happens to be the current owner."

"Yeah, but look at ticket prices. Fifteen bucks to watch a game."

"Attendance is up. The fans don't seem to mind."

They drove through downtown, deserted at four in the morning, and
within minutes were near the jail. "Listen, Adam, I don't know how
much Lee has told you about her drinking problem."

"She told me she's an alcoholic."

THE CHAMBER 331

"Definitely. This is the second drunk driving charge. I was able to
keep the first out of the papers, but I don't know about this. She's
suddenly become an item around town. Thank heaven she hasn't hurt
anybody." Phelps stopped the car at a curb near a fenced lot. "She's
been in and out of recovery half a dozen times."

"Half a dozen. She told me she'd been through treatment three
times."

"You can't believe alcoholics. I know of at least five times in the past
fifteen years. Her favorite place is a swanky little abuse center called
Spring Creek. It's on a river a few miles north of the city, real nice and
peaceful. It's for the wealthy only. They get dried out and pampered.
Good food, exercise, saunas, you know, all the bells and whistles. It's so
damned nice I think people want to go there. Anyway, I have a hunch
she'll turn up there later today. She has some friends who'll help her get
checked in. She's well known around the place. Sort of a second home."

"How long will she stay there?"

"It varies. The minimum is a week. She has stayed as long as a month.
Costs two thousand bucks a day, and of course they send me the bills.
But I don't mind. I'll pay any amount to help her."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"First, we try to find her. I'll get my secretaries on the phones in a few
hours, and we'll track her down. She's fairly predictable at this point, and
I'm sure she'll turn up in a detox ward, probably at Spring Creek. I'll
start pulling strings in a few hours and try to keep it out of the paper. It
won't be easy, in light of everything else that's been printed recently."

"I'm sorry."

"Once we find her, you need to go see her. Take some flowers and
candy. I know you're busy, and I know what's ahead for the next, uh — "

"Nine days."

"Nine days. Right. Well, try to see her. And, when the thing down at
Parchman is over, I suggest you go back to Chicago, and leave her
alone."

"Leave her alone?"

"Yeah. It sounds harsh, but it's necessary. There are many reasons tor
her many problems. I'll admit I'm one of the reasons, but there's lots of
stuff you don't know. Her family is another reason. She adores you, but
you also bring back nightmares and a lot of suffering. Don't think bad of
me for saying this. I know it hurts, but it's the truth."

Adam stared at the chain-link fence across the sidewalk next to his
door.

"She was sober once for five years," Phelps continued. "And we
thought she'd stay that way forever. Then Sam was convicted, and then

332 JOHN GRISHAM

Eddie died. When she returned from his funeral, she fell into the black
hole, and I thought many times that she'd never get out. It's best for her
if you stay away."

"But I love Lee."

"And she loves you. But you need to adore her from a distance. Send
her letters and cards from Chicago. Flowers for her birthday. Call once a
month and talk about movies and books, but stay away from the family
stuff"

"Who'll take care of her?"

"She's almost fifty years old, Adam, and for the most part she's very
independent. She's been an alcoholic for many years, and there's nothing
you or I can do to help her. She knows the disease. She'll stay sober
when she wants to stay sober. You're not a good influence. Nor am I.
I'm sorry."

Adam breathed deeply and grabbed the door latch. "I'm sorry,
Phelps, if I've embarrassed you and your family. It was not intentional."

Phelps smiled and placed a hand on Adam's shoulder. "Believe it or
not, my family is in many ways more dysfunctional than yours. We've
been through worse."

"That, sir, is difficult to believe."

"It's true." Phelps handed him a key ring and pointed to a small
building inside the fence. "Check in there, and they'll show you the
car."

Adam opened the door and got out. He watched the Mercedes ease
away and disappear. As Adam w^alked through a gate in the fence, he
couldn't shake the unmistakable feeling that Phelps Booth actually stiU
loved his wife.

THIRTY- SIX

RETIP^D COLONEL George Nugent was barely ruffled by the
news of Naifeh's heart attack. The old guy was doing quite
^well by Monday morning, resting comfortably and out of dan-
ger, and what the heU he was only months away from retirement any-
way. Naifeh was a good man, but past his usefulness and hanging on
simply to bolster his pension. Nugent was considering a run for the head
position if he could get his politics straight.

Now, however, he was pressed with a more critical matter. The
Cayhall execution was nine days away, actually only eight because it was
scheduled for one minute after midnight on Wednesday of next week,
which meant that Wednesday counted as another day though only one
minute of it was used. Tuesday of next week was actually the last day.

On his desk was a shiny leather-bound notebook with the words
Mississippi Protocol printed professionally on the front. It was his mas-
terpiece, the result of two weeks of tedious organizing. He'd been
appalled at the haphazard guides and outlines and checklists thrown to-
gether by Naifeh for previous executions. It was a wonder they'd actually
been able to gas anyone. But now there was a plan, a detailed and
carefully arranged blueprint which included everything, in his opinion.
It was two inches thick and a hundred and eighty pages long, and of
course had his name all over it.

Lucas Mann entered his office at fifteen minutes after eight, Monday
morning. "You're late," Nugent snapped, now a man in charge ot
things. Mann was just a simple lawyer. Nugent was the head ot an
execution team. Mann was content with his work. Nugent had aspira-

334 JOHN GRISHAM

tions, which in the past twenty-four hours had been bolstered consider-
ably.

"So what," Mann said as he stood by a chair facing the desk. Nugent
was dressed in his standard dark olive pants with no wrinkles and heavily
starched dark oHve shirt with gray tee shirt underneath. His boots
gleamed with heavily buffed poHsh. He marched to a point behind his
desk. Mann hated him.

"We have eight days," Nugent said as if this were known only to him.

"I think it's nine," Mann said. Both men were standing.

"Next Wednesday doesn't count. We have eight working days left."

"Whatever."

Nugent sat stiffly in his chair. "Two things. First, here is a manual I've
put together for executions. A protocol. From A to Z. Completely orga-
nized, indexed, cross-indexed. I'd Hke for you to review the statutes
contained herein and make sure they're current."

Mann stared at the black binder but did not touch it.

"And second, I'd like a report each day on the status of all appeals. As
I understand it, there are no legal impediments as of this morning."

"That's correct, sir," Mann answered.

"I'd Hke something in writing first thing each morning with the
updates."

"Then hire yourself a lawyer, sir. You're not my boss, and I'U be
damned if I'U write a little brief for your morning coffee. I'll let you
know if something happens, but I won't push paper for you."

Ah, the frustrations of civiHan life. Nugent longed for the discipline of
the military. Damned lawyers. "Very weU. Will you please review the
protocol?"

Mann flipped it open and turned a few pages. "You know, we've
managed four executions without aU this."

"I find that very surprising, frankly."

"Frankly, I don't. We've become quite efficient, I'm sad to say."

"Look, Lucas, I don't reHsh this," Nugent said wistfuUy. "Phillip
asked me to do it. I hope there's a stay. I reaUy do. But if not, then we
must be prepared. I want this to run smoothly."

Mann acknowledged the obvious He, and picked up the manual. Nu-
gent had yet to witness an execution, and he was counting hours, not
days. He couldn't wait to see Sam strapped in the chair, sniffing gas.

Lucas nodded and left the office. In the hallway, he passed BiU Mon-
day, the state executioner, no doubt headed to Nugent's for a quiet pep
talk.

THE CHAMBER 335

ADAM ARRIVED at the Twig shortly before 3 p.m. The day had begun
with the panic over Lee's drunk driving mess, and had not improved.

He had been sipping coffee at his desk, nursing a headache and trying
to do some research, when in the span often minutes Darlene brought a
fax from New Orleans and a fax from the district court. He'd lost twice.
The Fifth Circuit upheld the decision of the federal court on Sam's
claim that the gas chamber was unconstitutional because it was cruel and
obsolete, and the district court denied the claim that Benjamin Keyes
had performed ineffectively at trial. The headache had suddenly been
forgotten. Within an hour, the Death Clerk, Mr. Richard Olander, had
called from Washington inquiring about Adam's plans to appeal, and he
also wanted to know what other filings might be contemplated by the
defense. He told Adam that there were only eight working days to go,
you know, as if Adam had to be reminded. Thirty minutes after
Olander's call, a clerk at the death desk of the Fifth Circuit called and
asked Adam when he planned to appeal the district court's ruling.

Adam had explained to both death clerks at both courts that he was
perfecting his appeals as quickly as possible, and he would try to file by
the end of the day. When he stopped to think about it, it was a little
unnerving practicing law with such an audience. At this moment of the
process, there were courts and justices watching to see what he would do
next. There were clerks calling and asking what he might be contem-
plating. The reason was obvious and disheartening. They weren't con-
cerned with whether or not Adam would seize the magical issue that
would prevent an execution. They were concerned only about logistics.
The death clerks had been instructed by their superiors to monitor the
waning days so the courts could rule quickly, usually against the inmate.
These justices did not enjoy reading briefs at three in the morning. They
wanted copies of all last minute filings on their desks long before the
appeals officially arrived.

Phelps had called him at the office just before noon with the news that
Lee had not been found. He had checked every detox and recovery
facility within a hundred miles, and no one had admitted a Lee Booth.
He was still searching, but was very busy now with meetings and such.

Sam arrived at the prison library thirty minutes later in a somber
mood. He'd heard the bad news at noon on television, on the Jackson
station that was counting down the days. Only nine more. He sat at the
table and stared blankly at Adam. "Where are the Eskimo Pies?" he
asked sadly, Hke a smaU child who wanted candy.

Adam reached under the table and retrieved a small Styrofoam cooler.
He placed it on the table and opened it. "They almost confiscated these

336 JOHN GRISHAM

at the front gate. Then the guards picked through and threatened to
throw them out. So, enjoy."

Sam grabbed one, admired it for a long second, then carefully peeled
off the wrapper. He licked the chocolate coating, then took a massive
bite. He chewed it slowly with his eyes closed.

Minutes later, the first Eskimo Pie was gone, and Sam started on the
second. "Not a good day," he said, Hcking the edges.

Adam slid some papers to him. "Here are both decisions. Short, to the
point, and strongly against us. You don't have a lot of friends on these
courts, Sam."

"I know. At least the rest of the world adores me. I don't wanna read
that crap. What do we do next?"

"We're gonna prove you're too crazy to execute, that because of your
advanced age you don't fuUy comprehend the nature of your punish-
ment."

"Won't work."

"You liked the idea Saturday. What's happened?"

"It won't work."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not insane. I know full well why I'm being executed.
You're doing what lawyers do best — dreaming up offbeat theories, then
finding wacky experts to prove them." He took a large bite of ice cream
and licked his lips.

"You want me to quit?" Adam snapped.

Sam pondered his yellow fingernails. "Maybe," he said, quickly run-
ning his tongue across a finger.

Adam slid into the seat next to him, as opposed to his usual lawyerly
position across the table, and studied him closely. "What's the matter,
Sam?"

"I don't know. I've been thinking."

"I'm listening."

"When I was very young, my best friend was Idlled in a car wreck. He
was twenty-six, had a new wife, new child, new house, his whole life in
front of him. Suddenly, he was dead. I've outlived him by forty-three
years. My oldest brother died when he was fifty-six. I've outlived him by
thirteen years. I'm an old man, Adam. A very old man. I'm tired. I feel
like giving it up."

"Come on, Sam."

"Look at the advantages. It takes the pressure off you. You won't be
forced to spend the next week running crazy and filing useless claims.
You won't feel like a failure when it's over. I won't spend my last days
praying for a miracle, but instead I can get my things in order. We can

THE CHAMBER 337

spend more time together. It'll make a lot of people happy — the
Kramers, McAllister, Roxburgh, eighty percent of the American people
who favor the death penalty. It'll be another glorious moment for law
and order. I can go out with a Httle dignity, instead of looking like a
desperate man who's afraid to die. It's really quite appealing."

"What's happened to you, Sam? Last Saturday you were stiU ready to
fight the bear."

"I'm tired of fighting. I'm an old man. I've had a long life. And what
if you're successful in saving my skin? Where does that leave me? I'm not
going anyplace, Adam. You'll go back to Chicago and bury yourself in
your career. I'm sure you'll come down whenever you can. We'll write
letters and send cards. But I have to live on the Row. You don't. You
have no idea."

"We're not quitting, Sam. We still have a chance."

"It's not your decision." He finished the second Eskimo Pie and
wiped his mouth with a sleeve.

"I don't like you Uke this, Sam. I like it when you're mad and nasty
and fighting."

"I'm tired, okay?"

"You can't let them kill you. You have to fight to the bitter end,
Sam."

"Why?"

"Because it's wrong. It's morally wrong for the state to kill you, and
that's why we can't give up."

"But we're gonna lose anyway."

"Maybe. Maybe not. But you've been fighting for almost ten years.
Why quit with a week to go?"

"Because it's over, Adam. This thing has finally run its course."

"Perhaps, but we can't quit. Please don't throw in the towel. Hell, I'm
making progress. I've got these clowns on the run."

Sam offered a gentle smile and a patronizing gaze.

Adam inched closer and placed his hand on Sam's arm. "I've thought
of several new strategies," he said in earnest. "In fact, tomorrow we've
got an expert coming to examine you."

Sam looked at him. "What kind of expert?"

"A shrink."

"A shrink?"

"Yeah. From Chicago."

"I've already talked to a shrink. It didn't go well."

"This guy's different. He works for us and he'll say that you've lost
your mental faculties."

"You're assuming I had them when I got here."

338 JOHN GRISHAM

"Yes, we're assuming that. This psychiatrist wiR examine you tomor-
row, then he'll quickly prepare a report to the effect that you're senile
and insane and just a blithering idiot, and w^ho knows what else he'll
say.

"Ho^v do you know he'll say this?"

"Because we're paying him to say it."

"Who's paying him?"

"Kravitz & Bane, those dedicated Jewish- Americans in Chicago you
hate, but who've been busting their asses to keep you alive. It's Good-
man's idea, actually."

"Must be a fme expert."

"We can't be too particular at this point. He's been used by some of
the other lawyers in the firm on various cases, and he'll say whatever we
want him to say. Just act bizarre when you talk to him."

"That shouldn't be too difficult."

"Tell him all the horror stories about this place. Make it sound atro-
cious and deplorable."

"No problem there."

"Tell him how you've deteriorated over the years, and how it's espe-
cially hard on a man your age. You're by far the oldest one here, Sam, so
tell him how it's affected you. Lay it on thick. He'll fix up a compelling
little report, and I'll run to court with it."

"It won't work."

"It's worth a try."

"The Supreme Court allowed Texas to execute a retarded boy."

"This ain't Texas, Sam. Every case is different. Just work with us on
this, okay."

"Us? Who is us?"

"Me and Goodman. You said you didn't hate him anymore, so I
figured I'd let him in on the fun. Seriously, I need help. There's too
much work for only one lawyer."

Sam scooted his chair away from the table, and stood. He stretched his
arms and legs, and began pacing along the table, counting steps as he
went.

"I'U file a petition for cert to the Supreme Court in the morning,"
Adam said as he looked at a checklist on his legal pad. "They probably
won't agree to hear it, but I'll do it anyway. I'll also finish the appeal to
the Fifth Circuit on the ineffectiveness claim. The shrink will be here
tomorrow afternoon. I'U fde the mental competency claim Wednesday
morning."

"I'd rather go peacefully, Adam."

THE CHAMBER 339

"Forget it, Sam. We're not quitting. I talked to Carmen last night, and
she wants to come see you."

Sam sat on the edge of the table and watched the floor. His eyes were
narrow and sad. He puffed and blew smoke at his feet. "Why would she
want to do that?"

"I didn't ask why, nor did I suggest it. She brought it up. I told her I'd
ask you."

"I've never met her."

"I know. She's your only granddaughter, Sam, and she wants to
come."

"I don't want her to see me like this," he said, waving at his red
jumpsuit.

"She won't mind."

Sam reached into the cooler and took another Eskimo Pie. "Do you
want one?" he asked.

"No. What about Carmen?"

"Let me think about it. Does Lee still want to visit?"

"Uh, sure. I haven't talked to her in a couple of days, but I'm sure she
wants to."

"I thought you were staying with her."

"I am. She's been out of town."

"Let me think about it. Right now I'm against it. I haven't seen Lee in
almost ten years, and I just don't want her to remember me like this. Tell
her I'm thinking about it, but right now I don't think so."

"I'll tell her," Adam promised, uncertain if he would see her anytime
soon. If she had in fact sought treatment, she would undoubtedly be
secluded for several weeks.

"I'll be glad when the end comes, Adam. I'm really sick of all this."
He took a large bite of ice cream.

"I understand. But let's put it off for a while."

"Why?"

"Why? It's obvious. I don't want to spend my entire legal career
encumbered with the knowledge that I lost my first case."

"That's not a bad reason."

"Great. So we're not quitting?"

"I guess not. Bring on the shrink. I'll act as loony as possible."

"That's more like it."

LUCAS MANN was waiting for Adam at the front gate of the prison. It
was almost five, the temperature still hot and the air still sticky. "Gotta
minute?" he asked through the window of Adam's car.
"I guess. What's up?"

340 JOHN GRISHAM

"Park over there. We'll sit under the shade."

They walked to a picnic table by the Visitors Center, under a mam-
moth oak with the highway in view not far away. "A couple of things,"
Mann said. "How's Sam? Is he holding up okay?"

"As well as can be expected. Why?"

"Just concerned, that's all. At last count, we had fifteen requests for
interviews today. Things are heating up. The press is on its way."

"Sam is not talking."

"Some want to talk to you."

"I'm not talking either."

"Fine. We have a form that Sam needs to sign. It gives us written
authorization to tell the reporters to get lost. Have you heard about
Naifeh?"

"I saw it in the paper this morning."

"He'll be okay, but he can't supervise the execution. There's a nut
named George Nugent, an assistant superintendent, who'll coordinate
everything. He's a commandant. Retired military and all, a real gung-ho
type."

"It really makes no difference to me. He can't carry out the death
\varrant unless the courts allow it."

"Right. I just wanted you to know who he was."

"I can't wait to meet him."

"One more thing. I have a friend, an old buddy from law school who
now works in the governor's administration. He called this morning, and
it seems as if the governor is concerned about Sam's execution. Accord-
ing to my friend, who no doubt was told by the governor to solicit me
to speak to you, they would like to conduct a clemency hearing, prefera-
bly in a couple of days."

"Are you close to the governor?"

"No. I despise the governor."

"So do I. So does my cHent."

"That's why my friend was recruited to call and lean on me. Alleg-
edly, the governor is having serious doubts about whether Sam should
be executed."

"Do you beHeve it?"

"It's doubtful. The governor's reputation was made at the expense of
Sam Cayhall, and I'm certain he's fme-tuning his media plan for the next
eight days. But what is there to lose?"

"Nothing."

"It's not a bad idea."

"I'm aU for it. My client, however, has given me strict orders not to
request such a hearing."

THE CHAMBER 341

Mann shrugged as if he really didn't care what Sam did. "It's up to
Sam then. Does he have a will?"

"Yes."

"How about burial arrangements?"

"I'm working on them. He wants to be buried in Clanton."

They started walking toward the front gate. "The body goes to a
funeral home in Indianola, not far from here. It'll be released to the
family there. AU visitation ends four hours before the scheduled execu-
tion. From that point on, Sam can have only two people with him — his
lawyer and his spiritual adviser. He also needs to select his two witnesses,
if he so chooses."

"I'll speak to him."

"We need his approved list of visitors between now and then. It's
usually family and close friends."

"That'll be a very short list."

"I know."

THIRTY-SEVEN

EVERY OCCUPANT of the Row knew the procedure, though it
had never been reduced to writing. The veterans, including Sam,
had endured four executions over the past eight years, and with
each the procedure had been followed with small variations. The old
hands talked and whispered among themselves, and they were usually
quick to dispense descriptions of the last hours to the new guys, most of
whom arrived at the Row with muted questions about how it's done.
And the guards liked to talk about it.

The last meal was to be taken in a small room near the front of the
Row, a room referred to simply as the front office. It had a desk and
some chairs, a phone and an air conditioner, and it was in this room that
the condemned man received his last visitors. He sat and listened as his
lawyers tried to explain why things were not developing as planned. It
was a plain room with locked windows. The last conjugal visit was held
here, if in fact the inmate was up to it. Guards and administrators loitered
in the hallway outside.

The room was not designed for the last hours, but when Teddy Doyle
Meeks became the first in many years to be executed in 1982, such a
room was suddenly needed for all sorts of purposes. It once belonged to
a Heutenant, then a case manager. It had no other name except for the
front office. The phone on the desk was the last one used by the inmate's
lawyer when he received the final word that there would be no more
stays, no more appeals. He then made the long walk back to Tier A, to
the far end where his client waited in the Observation Cell.

The Observation Cell was nothing more than a regular cell on Tier A,"

THE CHAMBER 343

just eight doors down from Sam. It was six by nine, with a bunk, a sink,
and a toilet, just Hke Sam's, just like all the others. It was the last cell on
the tier, and the nearest to the Isolation Room, which was next to the
Chamber Room. The day before the execution, the inmate was to be
taken for the last time from his cell and placed in Observation. His
personal belongmgs were to be moved too, which was usually a quick
task. There he waited. Usually, he watched his own private drama on
television as the local television stations monitored his last ditch appeals.
His lawyer waited with him, seated on the flimsy bed, in the dark cell,
watching the news reports. The lawyer ran back and forth to the front
oflfice. A minister or spiritual adviser was also allowed in the cell.

The Row would be dark and deathly quiet. Some of the inmates
would hover above their televisions. Others would hold hands and pray
through the bars. Others would lie on their beds and wonder when their
time would come. The outside windows above the hallway were all
closed and bolted. The Row was locked down. But there were voices
between the tiers, and there were lights from the outside. For men who
sit for hours in tiny cells, seeing and hearing everything, the flurry of
strange activity was nerve-racking.

At eleven, the warden and his team would enter Tier A and stop at the
Observation Cell. By now, the hope of a last minute stay was virtually
exhausted. The inmate would be sitting on his bed, holding hands with
his lawyer and his minister. The warden would announce that it was
time to go to the Isolation Room. The cell door would clang and open,
and the inmate would step into the hallway. There would be shouts of
support and reassurance from the other inmates, many of whom would
be in tears. The Isolation Room is no more than twenty feet from the
Observation Cell. The inmate would walk through the center of tw^o
rows of armed and bulky security guards, the largest the warden could
fmd. There was never any resistance. It wouldn't do any good.

The warden would lead the inmate into a small room, ten feet by ten,
with nothing in it except a foldaway bed. The inmate would sit on the
bed with his lawyer by his side. At this point, the warden, for some
baffling reason, would feel the need to spend a few moments with the
inmate, as if he, the warden, was the last person the inmate wanted to
chat with. The warden eventually would leave. The room would be
quiet except for an occasional bang or knock from the room next door.
Prayers were normally completed at this point. There were just minutes
to go.

Next door to the Isolation Room was the Chamber Room itselt. It
was approximately fifteen feet by twelve, with the gas chamber in the
center of it. The executioner would be hard at work while the inmate

344 JOHN GRISHAM

prayed in isolation. The warden, the prison attorney, the doctor, and a
handful of guards would be making preparations. There would be two
telephones on the wall for the last minute clearance. There was a small
room to the left where the executioner mixed his solutions. Behind the
chamber w^as a series of three w^indows, eighteen inches by thirty, and
covered for the moment by black drapes. On the other side of the
windows was the witness room.

At twenty minutes before midnight, the doctor would enter the Isola-
tion Room and attach a stethoscope to the inmate's chest. He would
leave, and the w^arden would enter to take the condemned man to see
the chamber.

The Chamber Room was always filled with people, aU anxious to
help, aU about to watch a man die. They would back him into the
chamber, strap him in, close the door, and kiU him.

It was a fairly straightforward procedure, varied a bit to accommodate
the individual case. For example. Buster Moac was in the chair with half
the straps in place when the phone rang in the Chamber Room. He
went back to the Isolation Room and waited six miserable hours until
they came for him again. Jumbo Parris was the smartest of the four. A
longtime drug user before he made it to the Row, he began asking the
psychiatrist for Valium days before his execution. He chose to spend his
last hours alone, no lawyer or minister, and when they came to fetch
him from the Observation CeU, he was stoned. He had evidently stock-
piled the VaHum, and had to be dragged to the Isolation Room where he
slept in peace. He was then dragged to the chamber and given his final
dosage.

It was a humane and thoughtful procedure. The inmate remained in
his cell, next to his pals, up to the very end. In Louisiana, they were
removed from the Row^ and placed in a small building known as the
Death House. They spent their final three days there, under constant
supervision. In Virginia, they were moved to another city.

Sam was eight doors firom the Observation CeU, about forty-eight
feet. Then another twenty feet to the Isolation Room, then another
twelve feet to the chamber. From a point in the center of his bed, he'd
calculated many times that he was approximately eighty-five feet from
the gas chamber.

And he made the calculation again Tuesday morning as he carefuUy
made an X on his calendar. Eight days. It was dark and hot. He had slept
off and on and spent most of the night sitting in front of his fan. Break-
fast and coffee were an hour away now. This would be day number
3,449 on the Row, and the total did not include time spent in the
county jail in Greenville during his first two trials. Only eight more days.

THE CHAMBER 345

His sheets were soaked with sweat, and as he lay on the bed and
watched the ceiHng for the millionth time he thought of death. The
actual act of dying would not be too terrible. For obvious reasons, no
one knew the exact effects of the gas. Maybe they would give him an
extra dose so he'd be dead long before his body twitched and jerked.
Maybe the first breath would knock him senseless. At any rate, it
wouldn't take long, he hoped. He'd watched his wife shrivel and suffer
greatly from cancer. He'd watched kinfolks grow old and vegetate.
Surely, this was a better way to go.

"Sam," J. B. Gullitt whispered, "you up?"

Sam walked to his door and leaned through the bars. He could see
Gullitt's hands and forearms. "Yeah. I'm up. Can't seem to sleep." He lit
the first cigarette of the day.

"Me neither. Tell me it's not gonna happen, Sam."

"It's not gonna happen."

"You serious?"

"Yeah, I'm serious. My lawyer's about to unload the heavy stuff. He'U
probably walk me outta here in a coupla weeks."

"Then why can't you sleep?"

"I'm so excited about gettin' out."

"Have you talked to him about my case?"

"Not yet. He's got a lot on his mind. As soon as I get out, we'll go to
work on your case. Just relax. Try and get some sleep."

Gullitt's hands and forearms slowly withdrew, then his bed squeaked.
Sam shook his head at the kid's ignorance. He finished the cigarette and
thumped it down the hall, a breach of the rules which would earn him a
violation report. As if he cared.

He carefully took his typewriter from the shelf He had things to say
and letters to write. There were people out there he needed to speak to.

GEORGE NUGENT entered the Maximum Security Unit hke a five-
star general and glared disapprovingly at the hair and then at the un-
shined boots of a white security guard. "Get a haircut," he growled, "or
I'll write you up. And work on those boots."

"Yes sir," the kid said, and almost saluted.

Nugent jerked his head and nodded at Packer, who led the way
through the center of the Row to Tier A. "Number six," Packer said as
the door opened.

"Stay here," Nugent instructed. His heels clicked as he marched along
the tier, gazing with disdain into each cell. He stopped at Sam's, and
peered inside. Sam was stripped to his boxers, his thin and wrinkled skin

346 JOHN GRISHAM

gleaming with sweat as he pecked away. He looked at the stranger staring
at him through the bars, then returned to his work.

"Sam, my name is George Nugent."

Sam hit a few keys. The name was not famihar, but Sam assumed he
worked somewhere up the ladder since he had access to the tiers. "What
do you want?" Sam asked without looking.

"Well, I wanted to meet you."

"My pleasure, now shove off."

GuUitt to the right and Henshaw to the left were suddenly leaning
through the bars, just a few feet firom Nugent. They snickered at Sam's
response.

Nugent glared at them, and cleared his throat. "I'm an assistant super-
intendent, and PhiUip Naifeh has placed me in charge of your execution.
There are a few things we need to discuss."

Sam concentrated on his correspondence, and cursed when he hit a
wrong key. Nugent waited. "If I could have a few minutes of your
valuable time, Sam."

"Better caU him Mr. Cayhall," Henshaw added helpfuUy. "He's a few
years older than you, and it means a lot to him."

"Where'd you get those boots?" GuUitt asked, staring at Nugent's
feet.

"You boys back away," Nugent said sternly. "I need to talk to Sam."

"Mr. CayhaU's busy right now," Henshaw said. "Perhaps you should
come back later. I'll be happy to schedule an appointment for you."

"Are you some kinda military asshole?" Gullitt asked.

Nugent stood stiffly and glanced to his right and to his left. "I'm
ordering you two to get back, okay. I need to speak to Sam."

"We don't take orders," Henshaw said.

"And what're you gonna do about it?" GuUitt asked. "Throw us in
solitary? Feed us roots and berries? Chain us to the waUs? Why don't you
just go ahead and kiU us?"

Sam placed his typew^riter on the bed, and walked to the bars. He
took a long drag, and shot smoke through them in the general direction
of Nugent. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"I need a few things from you."

"Such as?"

"Do you have a wiU?"

"That's none of your damned business. A wiU is a private document
to be seen only if it's probated, and it's probated only after a person dies.
That's the law."

"What a dumbass!" Henshaw shrieked.

THE CHAMBER 347

"I don't believe this," Gullitt offered. "Where did Naifeh find this
idiot?" he asked.

"Anything else?" Sam asked.

Nugent's face was changing colors. "We need to know what to do
with your things."

"It's in my will, okay."

"I hope you're not going to be difficult, Sam."

"It's Mr. Cayhall," Henshaw said again.

"Difficult?" Sam asked. "Why would I be difficult? I intend to coop-
erate fuUy with the state while it goes about its business of killing me.
I'm a good patriot. I would vote and pay taxes if I could. I'm proud to be
an American, an Irish-American, and at this moment I'm still very much
in love with my precious state, even though it plans to gas me. I'm a
model prisoner, George. No problems out of me."

Packer was thoroughly enjoying this as he waited at the end of the
tier. Nugent stood firm.

"I need a list of the people you want to witness the execution," he
said. "You're allowed two."

"I'm not giving up yet, George. Let's wait a few days."

"Fine. I'll also need a list of your visitors for the next few days."

"Well, this afternoon I have this doctor coming down from Chicago,
you see. He's a psychiatrist, and he's gonna talk to me and see how nutty
1 really am, then my lawyers will run to court and say that you, George,
can't execute me because I'm crazy. He'll have time to examine you, if
you want. It won't take long."

Henshaw and Gullitt horselaughed, and within seconds most of the
other inmates on the tier were chiming in and cackling loudly. Nugent
took a step backward and scowled up and down the tier. "Quiet!" he
demanded, but the laughter increased. Sam continued puffing and blow-
ing smoke through the bars. Catcalls and insults could be heard amid the
ruckus.

"I'll be back," Nugent shouted angrily at Sam.

"He shall return!" Henshaw yelled, and the commotion grew even
louder. The commandant stormed away, and as he marched swiftly to
the end of the haU, shouts of "Heil Hitler" rang through the tier.

Sam smiled at the bars for a moment as the noise died, then returned
to his position on the edge of the bed. He took a bite of dry toast, a sip
of cold coffee. He resumed his typing.

THE AFTERNOON DRIVE to Parchman was not a particularly pleas-
ant one. Garner Goodman sat in the front seat as Adam drove, and they
talked strategy and brainstormed about the last minute appeals and pro-

348 JOHN GRISHAM

cedures. Goodman planned to return to Memphis over the weekend,
and be available during the last three days. The psychiatrist was Dr.
S^vinn, a cold, unsmiHng man in a black suit. He had wild, bushy hair,
dark eyes hidden behind thick glasses, and was completely incapable of
small talk. His presence in the backseat was discomfiting. He did not
utter a single word from Memphis to Parchman.

The examination had been arranged by Adam and Lucas Mann to
take place in the prison hospital, a remarkably modern facility. Dr.
S"winn had very plainly informed Adam that neither he nor Goodman
could be present during his evaluation of Sam. And this was perfectly
fine with Adam and Goodman. A prison van met them at the front gate,
and carried Dr. Swinn to the hospital deep inside the farm.

Goodman had not seen Lucas Mann in several years. They shook
hands like old friends, and immediately lapsed into war stories about
executions. The conversation was kept away from Sam, and Adam ap-
preciated it.

They walked firom Mann's office across a parking lot to a small build-
ing behind the administration complex. The building was a restaurant,
designed along the Hues of a neighborhood tavern. Called The Place, it
served basic food to the office workers and prison employees. No alco-
hol. It was on state property.

They drank iced tea and talked about the future of capital punishment.
Both Goodman and Mann agreed that executions would soon become
even more commonplace. The U.S. Supreme Court was continuing its
swing to the right, and it was weary of the endless appeals. Ditto for the
lower levels of the federal judiciary. Plus, American juries were becom-
ing increasingly reflective of society's intolerance of violent crime. There
was much less sympathy for death row inmates, a much greater desire to
fry the bastards. Fewer federal dollars were being spent to fund groups
opposed to the death penalty, and fewer lawyers and their firms were
willing to make the enormous pro bono commitments. The death row
population was growing faster than the number of lawyers willing to take
capital cases.

Adam was quite bored with the conversation. He'd read and heard it a
hundred times. He excused himself and found a pay phone in a corner.
Phelps was not in, a young secretary said, but he'd left a message for
Adam: no word firom Lee. She was scheduled to be in court in two
weeks; maybe she'd turn up then.

DARLENE typed Dr. Swinn's report while Adam and Garner Good-
man worked on the petition to accompany it. The report was twenty
pages long in rough draft, and sounded Hke soft music. Swinn ■was a

THE CHAMBER 349

hired gun, a prostitute who'd sell an opinion to the highest bidder, and
Adam detested him and his ilk. He roamed the country as a professional
testifier, able to say this today and that tomorrow, depending on who
had the deepest pockets. But for the moment, he was their whore, and
he was quite good. Sam was suffering from advanced senility. His mental
faculties had eroded to the point where he did not know and appreciate
the nature of his punishment. He lacked the requisite competence to be
executed, and therefore the execution would not serve any purpose. It
was not an entirely unique legal argument, nor had the courts exactly
embraced it. But, as Adam found himself saying every day, what was
there to lose? Goodman seemed to be more than a little optimistic,
primarily because of Sam's age. He could not recall an execution of a
man over the age of fifty.

They, Darlene included, worked until almost eleven.

THIRTY-EIGHT

GARNER GOODMAN did not return to Chicago Wednesday
morning, but instead flew to Jackson, Mississippi. The flight
took thirty minutes, hardly time for a cup of coffee and an
unthawed croissant. He rented a car at the airport and drove straight to
the state capitol. The legislature was not in session, and there were plenty
of parking places on the grounds. Like many county courthouses rebuilt
after the Civil War, the capitol defiantly faced south. He stopped to
admire the war monument to Southern women, but spent more time
studying the splendid Japanese magnoHas at the bottom of the front steps.

Four years earlier, during the days and hours prior to the Maynard
Tole execution, Goodman had made this same journey on two occa-
sions. There was a different governor then, a different cHent, and a
different crime. Tole had murdered several people in a two-day crime
spree, and it had been quite difficult to arouse sympathy for him. He
hoped Sam CayhaU was different. He was an old man who'd probably
die within five years anyway. His crime was ancient history to many
Mississippians. And on and on.

Goodman had been rehearsing his routine all morning. He entered
the capitol building and once again marveled at its beauty. It was a
smaller version of the U.S. Capitol in Washington, and no expense had
been spared. It had been built in 1910 with prison labor. The state had
used the proceeds from a successful lawsuit against a railroad to construct
itself this monument.

He entered the governor's office on the second floor and handed his
card to the lovely receptionist. The governor w^as not in this morning.

THE CHAMBER 351

she said, and did he have an appointment? No, Goodman explained
pleasantly, but it was very important, and would it be possible for him to
see Mr. Andy Larramore, chief counsel for the governor?

He waited as she made several calls, and half an hour later Mr. Lar-
ramore presented himself They made their introductions and disap-
peared into a narrow hallway that ran through a maze of small offices.
Larramore's cubbyhole was cluttered and disorganized, much like the
man himself He was a small guy with a noticeable bend at the waist and
absolutely no neck. His long chin rested on his chest, and when he
talked his eyes, nose, and mouth all squeezed together tightly. It was a
horrible sight. Goodman couldn't tell if he was thirty or fifty. He had to
be a genius.

"The governor is speaking to a convention of insurance agents this
morning," Larramore said, holding an itinerary as if it were a piece of
fine jewelry. "And then he visits a public school in the inner city."

"I'll wait," Goodman said. "It's very important, and I don't mind
hanging around."

Larramore placed the sheet of paper aside, and folded his hands on the
table. "What happened to that young fellow, Sam's grandson?"

"Oh, he's still lead counsel. I'm the director of pro bono for Kravitz &
Bane, so I'm here to assist him."

"We're monitoring this thing very closely," Larramore said, his face
wrinkling fiercely in the center, then relaxing at the end of each sen-
tence. "Looks like it will go down to the wire."

"They always do," Goodman said. "How serious is the governor
about a clemency hearing?"

"I'm sure he'll entertain the idea of a hearing. The granting of clem-
ency is an entirely different matter. The statute is very broad, as I'm sure
you know. He can commute the death sentence and instantly parole the
convict. He can commute it to life in prison, or something less than
that."

Goodman nodded. "Will it be possible for me to see him?"

"He's scheduled to return here at eleven. I'll speak to him then. He'll
probably eat lunch at his desk, so there may be a gap around one. Can
you be here?"

"Yes. This must be kept quiet. Our client is very much opposed to
this meeting."

"Is he opposed to the idea of clemency?"

"We have seven days to go, Mr. Larramore. We're not opposed to
anything."

Larramore crinkled his nose and exposed his upper teeth, and picked
up the itinerary again. "Be here at one. I'll see what I can do."

352 JOHN GRISHAM

"Thanks." They chatted aimlessly for five minutes, then Larramore
was besieged by a series of urgent phone calls. Goodman excused himself
and left the capitol. He paused again at the Japanese magnolias and
removed his jacket. It \vas nine-thirty, and his shirt was wet under the
arms and sticking to his back.

He walked south in the general direction of Capitol Street, four blocks
away and considered to be the main street of Jackson. In the midst of the
buildings and traffic of downtown, the governor's mansion sat majesti-
cally on manicured grounds and faced the capitol. It was a large antebel-
lum home surrounded by gates and fences. A handful of death penalty
opponents had gathered on the sidewalk the night Tole was executed and
yelled at the governor. Evidently, he had not heard them. Goodman
stopped on the sidewalk and remembered the mansion. He and Peter
Wiesenberg had walked hurriedly through a gate to the left of the main
drive with their last plea, just hours before Tole was gassed. The gover-
nor at that time was having a late dinner with important people, and had
become quite irritated with their interruption. He denied their final
request for clemency, then, in the finest Southern tradition, invited them
to stay for dinner.

They'd politely declined. Goodman explained to His Honor that they
had to hurry back to Parchman to be with their client as he died. "Be
careful," the governor had told them, then returned to his dinner party.

Goodman wondered how many protestors would be standing on this
spot in a few short days, chanting and praying and burning candles,
waving placards, and yelling at McAllister to spare old Sam. Probably not
very many.

There has seldom been a shortage of office space in the central busi-
ness district in Jackson, and Goodman had little trouble finding what he
wanted. A sign directed his attention to vacant footage on the third floor
of an ugly building. He inquired at the front desk of a finance company
on the ground level, and an hour later the owner of the building arrived
and showed him the available space. It was a dingy two-room suite with
worn carpet and holes in the wallboard. Goodman walked to the lone
window and looked at the front of the capitol building three blocks
away. "Perfect," he said.

"It's three hundred a month, plus electricity. Rest room's down the
haU. Six-month minimum."

"I need it for only two months," Goodman said, reaching into his
pocket and withdrawing a neatly folded collection of cash.

The owner looked at the money, and asked, "What kind of business
are you in?"

"Marketing analysis."

THE CHAMBER 353

"Where are you from?"

"Detroit. We're thinking about estabHshing a branch in this state, and
we need this space to get started. But for only two months. All cash.
Nothing in writing. We'U be out before you know it. Won't make a
sound."

The owner took the cash and handed Goodman two keys, one for the
office, the other for the entrance on Congress Street. They shook hands
and the deal was closed.

Goodman left the dump and returned to his car at the capitol. Along
the way he chuckled at the scheme he was pursuing. The idea was
Adam's brainchild, another long shot in a series of desperate plots to save
Sam. There was nothing illegal about it. The cost would be slight, and
who cared about a few dollars at this point? He was, after all, Mr. Pro
Bono at the firm, the source of great pride and self-righteousness among
his peers. Nobody, not even Daniel Rosen, would question his expendi-
tures for a little rent and a few phones.

AFTER THRTE WEEKS as a death row lawyer, Adam was beginning
to yearn for the predictability of his office in Chicago, if, in fact, he still
had an office. Before ten o'clock Wednesday, he had finished a claim for
postconviction relief He had talked with various court clerks four times,
then with a court administrator. He had talked with Richard Olander in
Washington twice concerning the habeas claim attacking the gas cham-
ber, and he had talked with a clerk at the death desk at the Fifth Circuit
in New Orleans regarding the ineffectiveness claim.

The claim alleging Sam's lack of mental competence was now in
Jackson, by fax with the original to follow by Fed-Ex, and Adam was
forced to politely beg the court's administrator to speed things up.
Hurry up and deny it, he said, though not in those words. If a stay of
execution was forthcoming, it would in aU likelihood be issued by a
federal judge.

Each new claim brought with it a scant new ray of hope, and, as
Adam was quickly learning, also the potential for another loss. A claim
had to clear four obstacles before it was extinguished — the Mississippi
Supreme Court, the federal district court, the Fifth Circuit, and the U.S.
Supreme Court — so the odds were against success, especially at this stage
of the appeals. Sam's bread and butter issues had been litigated thor-
oughly by Wallace Tyner and Garner Goodman years ago. Adam was
now filing the crumbs.

The clerk at the Fifth Circuit doubted if the court would care to
indulge in another oral argument, especially since it appeared that Adam
would be filing new claims every day. The three-judge panel would

354 JOHN GRISHAM

probably consider only the briefs. Conference calls would be used if the
judges wished to hear his voice.

Richard Olander called again to say the Supreme Court had received
Adam's petition for cert, or request to hear the case, and that it had been
assigned. No, he did not think the Court would care to hear oral argu-
ment. Not this late in the game. He also informed Adam that he had
received by fax a copy of the new claim of mental incompetency, and
that he would monitor it through the local courts. Interesting, he said.
He asked again what new claims Adam might be contemplating, but
Adam wouldn't say.

Judge Slattery's law clerk, Breck Jefferson, he of the permanent scowl,
called to inform Adam that His Honor had received by fax a copy of the
new claim fded with the Mississippi Supreme Court, and frankly His
Honor didn't think much of it but would nonetheless give it full consid-
eration once it arrived in their court.

Adam took a little satisfaction in the knowledge that he had managed
to keep four very different courts hopping at the same time.

At eleven, Morris Henry, the infamous Dr. Death in the Attorney
General's office, called to inform Adam that they had received the latest
round of gangplank appeals, as he enjoyed calHng them, and Mr. Rox-
burgh himself had assigned a dozen lawyers to produce the responding
paperwork. Henry was nice enough on the phone, but the call had made
its point — we have lots of lawyers, Adam.

The paperwork was being generated by the pound now, and the small
conference table was covered with neat stacks of it. Darlene was in and
out of the office constantly — making copies, dehvering phone messages,
fetching coffee, proofreading briefs and petitions. She'd been trained in
the tedious field of government bonds, so the detailed and voluminous
documents did not intimidate her. She confessed more than once that
this was an exciting change from her normal drudgery. "What's more
exciting than a looming execution?" Adam asked.

Even Baker Cooley managed to tear himself away from the latest
updates in federal banking regulations and popped in for a look.

Phelps called around eleven to ask if Adam wanted to meet for lunch.
Adam did not, and begged off by blaming deadlines and cranky judges.
Neither had heard from Lee. Phelps said she'd disappeared before, but
never for more than tw^o days. He was worried and thinking about
hiring a private investigator. He'd keep in touch.

"There's a reporter here to see you," Darlene said, handing him a
business card declaring the presence of Anne L. Piazza, correspondent
for Newsweek. She was the third reporter who'd contacted the office on
Wednesday. "Tell her I'm sorry," Adam said with no regret.

THE CHAMBER 355

"I did that already, but I thought that since it was Newsweek you might
wanna know."

"I don't care who it is. TeU her the cHent's not talking either."

She left in a hurry as the phone was ringing. It was Goodman, report-
ing from Jackson that he was to see the governor at one. Adam brought
him up to date on the flurry of activity and phone calls.

Darlene deHvered a deli sandwich at twelve-thirty. Adam ate it
quickly, then napped in a chair as his computer spewed forth another
brief

GOODMAN FLIPPED through a car magazine as he waited alone in
the reception area next to the governor's office. The same pretty secre-
tary worked on her nails between phone calls at her switchboard. One
o'clock came and went without comment. Same for one-thirty. The
receptionist, now with glorious peach nails, apologized at two. No prob-
lem, said Goodman with a warm smile. The beauty of a pro bono career
was that labor was not measured by time. Success meant helping people,
regardless of hours billed.

At two-fifteen, an intense young woman in a dark suit appeared from
nowhere and walked to Goodman. "Mr. Goodman, I'm Mona Stark,
the governor's chief of staff. The governor will see you now." She
smiled correctly, and Goodman followed her through a set of double
doors and into a long, formal room with a desk at one end and a
conference table far away at the other.

McAllister was standing by the window with his jacket off, tie loos-
ened, sleeves up, very much the beleaguered and overworked servant of
the people. "Hello, Mr. Goodman," he said with a hand thrust forward
and teeth flashing brilliantly.

"Governor, my pleasure," Goodman said. He had no briefcase, no
standard lawyer accessories. He looked as if he'd simply passed by on the
street and decided to stop and meet the governor.

"You've met Mr. Larramore and Ms. Stark," McAllister said, waving a
hand at each.

"Yes. We've met. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice." Good-
man tried to match his dazzling smile, but it was hopeless. At the mo-
ment, he was most humble and appreciative just to be in this great office.

"Let's sit over here," the governor said, waving at the conference table
and leading the way. The four of them sat on separate sides of the table.
Larramore and Mona withdrew pens and were poised for serious note-
taking. Goodman had nothing but his hands in front of him.

"I understand there've been quite of lot of filings in the past few
davs," McAllister said.

356 JOHN GRISHAM

"Yes sir. Just curious, have you been through one of these before?"
Goodman asked.

"No. ThankfuUy."

"Well, this is not unusual. I'm certain we'll be fiHng petitions until the
last moment."

"Can I ask you something, Mr. Goodman?" the governor said sin-
cerely.

"Certainly."

"I know you've handled many of these cases. What's your prediction
at this point? How close will it get?"

"You never know. Sam's a bit diflferent from most inmates on death
row because he's had good lawyers — good trial counsel, then superb
appellate work."

"By you, I beHeve."

Goodman smiled, then McAllister smiled, then Mona managed a
grin. Larramore remained hunched over his legal pad, his face contorted
in furious concentration.

"That's right. So Sam's major claims have already been ruled on.
What you're seeing now are the desperate moves, but they often work.
I'd say fifty-fifty, today, seven days away."

Mona quickly recorded this on paper as if it carried some enormous
legal significance. Larramore had written every word so far.

McAllister thought about it for a few seconds. "I'm a little confused,
Mr. Goodman. Your client does not know we're meeting. He's opposed
to the idea of a clemency hearing. You want this meeting kept quiet. So
why are we here?"

"Things change, Governor. Again, I've been here many times before.
I've watched men count down their last days. It does strange things to
the mind. People change. As the lawyer, I have to cover every base,
every angle."

"Are you asking for a hearing?"

"Yes sir. A closed hearing."

"When?"

"What about Friday?"

"In two days," McAllister said as he gazed through a window. Lar-
ramore cleared his throat, and asked, "What sort of witnesses do you
anticipate?"

"Good question. If I had names, I'd give them to you now, but I
don't. Our presentation will be brief."

"Who wiU testify for the state?" McAllister asked Larramore, whose
moist teeth gHstened as he pondered. Goodman looked away.

"I'm certain the victims' family will want to say something. The

THE CHAMBER 357

crime is usually discussed. Someone from the prison might be needed to
discuss the type of inmate he's been. These hearings are quite flexible."

"I know more about the crime than anyone," McAllister said, almost
to himself.

"It's a strange situation," Goodman confessed. "I've had my share of
clemency hearings, and the prosecutor is usuaUy the first witness to
testify against the defendant. In this case, you were the prosecutor."

"Why do you want the hearing closed?"

"The governor has long been an advocate of open meetings," Mona
added.

"It's really best for everyone," Goodman said, much like the learned
professor. "It's less pressure on you. Governor, because it's not exposed
and you don't have a lot of unsolicited advice. We, of course, would like
for it to be closed."

"Why?" McAllister asked.

"Well, frankly, sir, we don't want the public to see Ruth Kramer
talking about her little boys." Goodman watched them as he delivered
this. The real reason was something else altogether. Adam was convinced
that the only way to talk Sam into a clemency hearing was to promise
him it would not be a public spectacle. If such a hearing was closed, then
Adam could maybe convince Sam that McAllister would be prevented
from grandstanding.

Goodman knew dozens of people around the country who would
gladly come to Jackson on a moment's notice to testify on Sam's behalf
He had heard these people make some persuasive, last minute arguments
against death. Nuns, priests, ministers, psychologists, social workers, au-
thors, professors, and a couple of former death row inmates. Dr. Swinn
would testify about how dreadfully Sam was doing these days, and he
would do an excellent job of trying to convince the governor that the
state was about to kill a vegetable.

In most states, the inmate has a right to a last minute clemency hear-
ing, usually before the governor. In Mississippi, however, the hearing
was discretionary.

"I guess that makes sense," the governor actually said.

"There's enough interest already," Goodman said, knowing that
McAllister was giddy with dreams of the forthcoming media frenzy. "It
will benefit no one if the hearing is open."

Mona, the staunch open meetings advocate, frowned even harder and
wrote something in block letters. McAllister was deep in thought.

"Regardless of whether it's open or closed," he said, "there's no real
reason for such a hearing unless you and your client have something new

358 JOHN GRISHAM

to add. I know this case, Mr. Goodman. I smelled the smoke. I saw the
bodies. I cannot change my mind unless there's something new."

"Such as?"

"Such as a name. You give me the name of Sam's accompUce, and I'll
agree to a hearing. No promise of clemency, you understand, just a
regular clemency hearing. Otherwise, this is a waste of time."

"Do you believe there was an accomplice?" Goodman asked.

"We w^ere always suspicious. What do you think?"

"Why is it important?"

"It's important because I make the final decision, Mr. Goodman.
After the courts are finished with it, and the clock ticks down next
Tuesday night, I'm the only person in the world who can stop it. If Sam
deserves the death penalty, then I have no problem sitting by while it
happens. But if he doesn't, then the execution should be stopped. I'm a
young man. I do not want to be haunted by this for the rest of my life. I
want to make the right decision."

"But if you beUeve there was an accompHce, and you obviously do,
then why not stop it anyw^ay?"

"Because I want to be sure. You've been his lawyer for many years.
Do you think he had an accompHce?"

"Yes. I've always thought there were two of them. I don't know who
was the leader and who was the follower, but Sam had help."

McAllister leaned closer to Goodman and looked into his eyes. "Mr.
Goodman, if Sam will tell me the truth, then I will grant a closed
hearing, and I will consider clemency. I'm not promising a damned
thing, you understand, only that we'll have the hearing. Otherwise,
there's nothing new to add to the story."

Mona and Larramore scribbled faster than court reporters.

"Sam says he's telling the truth."

"Then forget the hearing. I'm a busy man."

Goodman sighed in firustration, but kept a smile in place. "Very well,
we'll talk to him again. Can we meet here again tomorrow?"

The governor looked at Mona, who consulted a pocket calendar and
began shaking her head as if tomorrow was hopelessly filled with
speeches and appearances and meetings. "You're booked," she said in a
commanding tone.

"What about lunch?"

Nope. Wouldn't work. "You're speaking to the NRA convention."

"Why don't you caU me?" Larramore offered.

"Good idea," the governor said, standing now and buttoning his
sleeves.

THE CHAMBER 359

Goodman stood and shook hands with the three. "I'll call if some-
thing breaks. We are requesting a hearing as soon as possible, regardless."

"The request is denied unless Sam talks," said the governor.

"Please put the request in writing, sir, if you don't mind," Larramore
asked.

"Certainly."

They walked Goodman to the door, and after he left the office McAl-
lister sat in his official chair behind his desk. He unbuttoned his sleeves
again. Larramore excused himself and went to his little room down the
hall.

Ms. Stark studied a printout while the governor watched the rows of
buttons blink on his phone. "How many of these calls are about Sam
Cayhall?" he asked. She moved a finger along a column.

"Yesterday, you had twenty-one calls regarding the Cayhall execution.
Fourteen in favor of gassing him. Five said to spare him. Two couldn't
make up their minds."

"That's an increase."

"Yeah, but the paper had that article about Sam's last ditch efforts. It
mentioned the possibility of a clemency hearing."

"What about the polls?"

"No change. Ninety percent of the white people in this state favor the
death penalty, and about half the blacks do. Overall, it's around eighty-
four percent."

"Where's my approval?"

"Sixty-two. But if you pardon Sam Cayhall, I'm sure it'll drop to
single digits."

"So you're against the idea."

"There's absolutely nothing to gain, and much to lose. Forget polls
and numbers, if you pardon one of those thugs up there you'll have the
other fifty sending lawyers and grandmothers and preachers down here
begging for the same favor. You have enough on your mind. It's fool-
ish."

"Yeah, you're right. Where's the media plan?"

"I'll have it in an hour."

"I need to see it."

"Nagel's putting the final touches on it. I think you should grant the
request for a clemency hearing anyway. But hold it Monday. Announce
it tomorrow. Let it simmer over the weekend."

"It shouldn't be closed."

"Hell no! We want Ruth Kramer crying for the cameras."

360 JOHN GRISHAM

"It's my hearing. Sam and his lawyers will not dictate its conditions. If
they want it, they'll do it my way."

"Paght. But keep in mind, you want it too. Tons of coverage."

GOODMAN SIGNED a three-month lease for four cellular phones.
He used a Kxavitz & Bane credit card and deftly dodged the barrage of
questions by the chirpy young salesman. He went to a public Library on
State Street and found a reference table filled with phonebooks. Judging
by their thickness, he selected those of the larger Mississippi towns,
places Hke Laurel, Hattiesburg, Tupelo, Vicksburg, Biloxi, and Meridian.
Then he picked the thinner ones — Tunica, Calhoun City, Bude, Long
Beach, West Point. At the information desk, he converted bills to quar-
ters, and spent two hours copying pages from the phonebooks.

He went merrily about his work. No one would' ve believed the natty
Little man with bushy gray hair and bow tie was in fact a partner in a
major Chicago firm with secretaries and paralegals at his beck and call.
No one would' ve beHeved he earned over four hundred thousand doUars
a year. And he couldn't have cared less. E. Garner Goodman was happy
with his work. He was trying his best to save another soul from being
legaUy killed.

He left the library and drove a few blocks to the Mississippi CoUege
School of Law. A professor there by the name of John Bryan Glass taught
criminal procedure and law, and also had begun publishing scholarly
articles against the death penalty. Goodman wanted to make his acquain-
tance, and to see if maybe the professor had a few bright students inter-
ested in a research project.

The professor was gone for the day, but scheduled to teach a 9 a.m.
class on Thursday. Goodman checked out the law school's Ubrary, then
left the building. He drove a few blocks to the Old State Capitol Build-
ing, just kiUing time, and took an extended tour of it. It lasted for thirty
minutes, half of which was spent at the Civil Rights Exhibit on the
ground floor. He asked the clerk in the gift shop about a bed and
breakfast, and she suggested the MiUsaps-Buie House, about a mile
down the street. He found the lovely Victorian mansion just where she'd
said, and took the last vacant room. The house was immaculately re-
stored with period pieces and furnishings. The butler frxed him a Scotch
and water, and he took it to his room.

THIRTY-NINE

THE AUBURN HOUSE opened for business at eight. A feeble
and dispirited security guard in a bad uniform unlocked the gate
across the drive, and Adam was the first person into the parking
lot. He waited in his car for ten minutes until another parked nearby. He
recognized the woman as the counselor he'd met in Lee's office two
weeks earlier. He stopped her on the sidewalk as she was entering a side
door. "Excuse me," he said. "We've met before. I'm Adam Hall. Lee's
nephew. I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name."

The lady held a worn briefcase in one hand and a brown lunch bag in
the other. She smiled and said, "Joyce Cobb. I remember. Where's
Lee?"

"I don't know. I was hoping you might know something. You haven't
heard from her?"

"No. Not since Tuesday."

"Tuesday? I haven't talked to her since Saturday. Did you talk to her
Tuesday?"

"She called here, but I didn't talk to her. It was the day they ran that
drunk driving story in the paper."

"Where was she?"

"She never said. She asked for the administrator, said she would be
out for a while, had to get some help, stuff Uke that. Never said where
she was or when she was coming back."

"What about her patients?"

"We're covering for her. It's always a struggle, you know. But we'll
manage."

362 JOHN GRISHAM

"Lee wouldn't forget these girls. Do you think maybe she's talked to
them this week?"

"Look, Adam, most of these girls don't have phones, okay? And Lee
certainly would not go into the projects. We're seeing her girls, and I
know they haven't talked to her."

Adam took a step back and looked at the gate. "I know. I need to find
her. I'm really worried."

"She'll be okay. She's done this once before, and everything worked
out." Joyce was suddenly in a hurry to get inside. "If I hear something,
rU let you know."

"Please do. I'm staying at her place."

"I know."

Adam thanked her, and drove away. By nine, he was at the office,
buried in paper.

COLONEL NUGENT sat at the end of a long table in the front of a
room filled with guards and staff people. The table was on a sUght
platform twelve inches above the rest of the room, and behind it on the
wall was a large chalkboard. A portable podium sat in a corner. The
chairs along the table to his right were empty, so that the guards and staff
sitting in the folding chairs could see the faces of the more important
ones on Nugent's left. Morris Henry from the Attorney General's office
was there, thick briefs lying before him. Lucas Mann sat at the far end
taking notes. Two assistant superintendents were next to Henry. A
flunkie from the governor's office was next to Lucas.

Nugent glanced at his watch, then began his Httle pep talk. He re-
ferred to his notes, and aimed his comments at the guards and staff. "As
of this morning, August 2, all stays have been Hfted by the various courts,
and there's nothing to stop the execution. We are proceeding as if it will
take place as planned, at one minute after midnight next Wednesday. We
have six full days to prepare, and I am determined for this thing to take
place smoothly, without a hitch.

"The inmate has at least three petitions and appeals currently working
their w^ay through the various courts, and, of course, there's no way to
predict what might happen. We are in constant contact with the Attor-
ney General's office. In fact, Mr. Morris Henry is here with us today. It
is his opinion, and an opinion shared by Mr. Lucas Mann, that this thing
will go down to the wire. A stay could be granted at any moment, but
that looks doubtful. We have to be ready regardless. The inmate is also
expected to request a clemency hearing from the governor, but, frankly,
that is not expected to be successful. From now until next Wednesday,
we wiU be in a state of preparedness."

THE CHAMBER 363

Nugent's words were strong and clear. He had center stage, and was
obviously enjoying every moment of it. He glanced at his notes, and
continued. "The gas chamber itself is being prepared. It's old and it
hasn't been used in two years, so we're being very careful with it. A
representative of the manufacturer arrives this morning, and will conduct
tests today and tonight. We'll go through a complete rehearsal of the
execution over the weekend, probably Sunday night, assuming there's no
stay. I have collected the lists of volunteers for the execution team, and
I'll make that determination this afternoon.

"Now, we're being inundated with requests from the media for all
sorts of things. They want to interview Mr. Cayhall, his lawyer, our
lawyer, the warden, the guards, other inmates on the row, the execu-
tioner, everybody. They want to witness the execution. They want pic-
tures of his cell and the chamber. Typical media silliness. But we must
deal with it. There is to be no contact with any member of the press
unless I first approve it. That goes for every employee of this institution.
No exceptions. Most of these reporters are not from around here, and
they get their jollies making us look like a bunch of ignorant rednecks.
So don't talk to them. No exceptions. I'll issue the appropriate releases
when I deem necessary. Be careful with these people. They're vultures.

"We're also expecting trouble from the outside. As of about ten min-
utes ago, the first group of Ku Klux Klansmen arrived at the front gate.
They were directed to the usual spot between the highway and the
administration building where the protests take place. We've also heard
that other such groups will be here shortly, and it appears as if they plan
to protest until this thing is over. We'll watch them closely. They have
the right to do this, so long as it's peaceful. Though I wasn't here for the
last four executions, I've been told that groups of death penalty support-
ers usually show up and raise heU. We plan to keep these two groups
separated, for obvious reasons."

Nugent couldn't sit any longer, and stood stiffly at the end of the
table. All eyes were on him. He studied his notes for a second.

"This execution will be different because of Mr. Cayhall's notoriety.
It will attract a lot of attention, a lot of media, a lot of other loonies. We
must act professionally at all times, and I will not tolerate any breach of
the rules of conduct. Mr. CayhaU and his family are entitled to respect
during these last few days. No off-color comments about the gas cham-
ber or the execution. I will not stand for it. Any questions?"

Nugent surveyed the room and was quite pleased with himself He'd
covered it all. No questions. "Very well. We'll meet again in the morn-
ing at nine." He dismissed them, and the room emptied hurriedly.

364 JOHN GRISHAM

GARNER GOODMAN caught Professor John Bryan Glass as he was
leaving his office and headed for a lecture. The class was forgotten as the
two stood in the hallway and swapped compHments. Glass had read aU of
Goodman's books, and Goodman had read most of Glass' recent articles
condemning the death penalty. The conversation quickly turned to the
CayhaU mess, and specifically to Goodman's pressing need for a handful
of trustworthy law students who could assist with a quick research proj-
ect over the weekend. Glass offered his help, and the two agreed to have
lunch in a few hours to pursue the matter.

Three blocks from the Mississippi College School of Law, Goodman
found the small and cramped offices of Southern Capital Defense Group,
a quasi federal agency with small, cramped offices in every state in the
Death Belt. The director was a young, black, Yale-educated lawyer
named Hez Kerry, who had forsaken the riches of the big firms and
dedicated his life to abolishing the death penalty. Goodman had met him
on two prior occasions at conferences. Though Kerry's Group, as it was
referred to, did not directly represent every inmate on death row, it did
have the responsibility of monitoring every case. Hez w^as thirty-one
years old and aging quickly. The gray hair was evidence of the pressure
of forty-seven men on death row.

On a wall above the secretary's desk in the foyer was a small calendar,
and across the top of it someone had printed the words BIRTHDAYS
ON DEATH ROW. Everybody got a card, nothing more. The budget
was tight, and the cards were usually purchased with pocket change
collected around the office.

The group had two lawyers working under Kerry's supervision, and
only one full-time secretary. A few students from the law school worked
several hours a week, for free.

Goodman talked with Hez Kerry for more than an hour. They
planned their movements for next Tuesday — Kerry himself would camp
out at the clerk's office at the Mississippi Supreme Court. Goodman
would stay at the governor's office. John Bryan Glass would be recruited
to sit in the Fifth Circuit's satellite office in the federal courthouse in
Jackson. One of Goodman's former associates at Kravitz & Bane now
worked in Washington, and he had already agreed to wait at the Death
Clerk's desk. Adam would be left to sit on the Row with the client and
coordinate the last minute calls.

Kerry agreed to participate in Goodman's market analysis project over
the weekend.

At eleven, Goodman returned to the governor's office in the state
capitol, and handed to Lawyer Larramore a written request for a clem-
ency hearing. The governor was out of the office, very busy these days,

THE CHAMBER 365

and he, Larramore, would see him just after lunch. Goodman left his
phone number at the Millsaps-Buie House, and said he would call in
periodically.

He then drove to his new office, now supplied with the finest rental
furniture available on two months' lease, cash of course. The folding
chairs were leftovers from a church fellowship hall, according to the
markings under the seats. The rickety tables too had seen their share of
potluck suppers and wedding receptions.

Goodman admired his hastily assembled little hole-in-the-wall. He
took a seat, and on a new cellular phone he called his secretary in
Chicago, Adam's office in Memphis, his wife at home, and the gover-
nor's hotline.

BY 4 P.M. Thursday, the Mississippi Supreme Court still had not denied
the claim based on Sam's alleged mental incompetence. Almost thirty
hours had passed since Adam filed it. He'd made a nuisance of himself
calling the court's clerk. He was tired of explaining the obvious — he
needed an answer, please. There was not the slightest trace of optimism
that the court was actually considering the merits of the claim. The
court, in Adam's opinion, was dragging its feet and delaying his rush to
federal court. At this point, relief in the state supreme court was impossi-
ble, he felt.

He wasn't exactly on a roll in the federal courts either. The U.S.
Supreme Court had not ruled on his request to consider the claim that
the gas chamber was unconstitutional. The Fifth Circuit was sitting on
his ineffectiveness of counsel claim.

Nothing was moving on Thursday. The courts were just sitting there
as if these were ordinary lawsuits to be filed and assigned and docketed,
then continued and delayed for years. He needed action, preferably a stay
granted at some level, or if not a stay then an oral argument, or a hearing
on the merits, or even a denial so he could move on to the next court.

He paced around the table in his office and listened for the phone. He
was tired of pacing and sick of the phone. The office was httered with
the debris of a dozen briefs. The table was blanketed with disheveled
piles of paper. Pink and yellow phone messages were stuck along one
bookshelf

Adam suddenly hated the place. He needed fresh air. He told Darlene
he was going for a walk, and left the building. It was almost five, still
bright and very warm. He walked to the Peabody Hotel on Union, and
had a drink in a corner of the lobby near the piano. It was his fust drink
since Friday in New Orleans, and although he enjoyed it he worried
about Lee. He looked for her in the crowd of conventioneers flocking

366 JOHN GRISHAM

around the registration desk. He "watched the tables in the lobby fill up
with well-dressed people, hoping that for some reason she would appear.
Where do you hide when you're fifty years old and running firom life?

A man with a ponytail and hiking boots stopped and stared, then
walked over. "Excuse me, sir. Are you Adam HaU, the lawyer for Sam
CayhaU?"

Adam nodded.

The man smiled, obviously pleased that he'd recognized Adam, and
walked to his table. "I'm Kirk Kleckner w^ith the New York Times." He
laid a business card in front of Adam. "I'm here covering the Cayhall
execution. Just arrived, actually. May I sit down?"

Adam w^aved at the empty seat across the small round table. Kleckner
sat down. "Lucky to fmd you here," he said, all smiles. He was in his
early forties with a rugged, globe-trotting journalist look — scrufiy beard,
sleeveless cotton vest over a denim shirt, jeans. "Recognized you from
some pictures I studied on the flight down."

"Nice to meet you," Adam said dryly.

"Can we talk?"

"About what?"

"Oh, lots of things. I understand your cHent wiU not give interviews."

"That's correct."

"What about you?"

"The same. We can chat, but nothing for the record."

"That makes it difficult."

"I honestly don't care. I'm not concerned with how difficult your job
may be."

"Fair enough." A pUant young w^aitress in a short skirt stopped by
long enough to take his order. Black coffee. "When did you last see your
grandfather?"

"Tuesday."

"When wiU you see him again?"
iomorrow.

"How is he holding up?"

"He's surviving. The pressure is building, but he's taking it well, so
far."

"What about you?"

"Just having a ball."

"Seriously. Are you losing sleep, you know, things like that?"

"I'm tired. Yeah, I'm losing sleep. I'm working lots of hours, running
back and forth to the prison. It'U go down to the wire, so the next few
days will be hectic."

THE CHAMBER 367

"I covered the Bundy execution in Florida. Quite a circus. His law-
yers went days without sleep."

"It's difficult to relax."

"WiU you do it again? I know this is not your specialty, but will you
consider another death case?"

"Only if I find another relative on death row. Why do you cover these
things?"

"I've written for years on the death penalty. It's fascinating. I'd like to
interview Mr. Cayhall."

Adam shook his head and finished his drink. "No. There's no way.
He's not talking to anyone."

"Will you ask him for me?"

"No."

The coffee arrived. Kleckner stirred it with a spoon. Adam watched
the crowd. "I interviewed Benjamin Keyes yesterday in Washington,"
Kleckner said. "He said he wasn't surprised that you're now saying he
made mistakes at trial. He said he figured it was coming."

At the moment, Adam didn't care about Benjamin Keyes or any of his
opinions. "It's standard. I need to run. Nice to meet you."

"But I wanted to talk about — "

"Listen, you're lucky you caught me," Adam said, standing abruptly.

"Just a couple of things," Kleckner said as Adam walked away.

Adam left the Peabody, and strolled to Front Street near the river,
passing along the way scores of well-dressed young people very much
like himself, all in a hurry to go home. He envied them; whatever their
vocations or careers, whatever their pressures at the moment, they
weren't carrying burdens as heavy as his.

He ate a sandwich at a deHcatessen, and by seven was back in his
office.

THE RABBIT had been trapped in the woods at Parchman by two of
the guards, who named him Sam for the occasion. He was a brown
cottontail, the largest of the four captured. The other three had already
been eaten.

Late Thursday night, Sam the rabbit and his handlers, along with
Colonel Nugent and the execution team, entered the Maximum Secu-
rity Unit in prison vans and pickups. They drove slowly by the front and
around the bullpens on the west end. They parked by a square, red-brick
building attached to the southwest corner of MSU.

Two white, metal doors without windows led to the interior ot the
square building. One, facing south, opened to a narrow room, eight feet
by fifteen, where the witnesses sat during the execution. They faced a

368 JOHN GRISHAM

series of black drapes which, when opened, revealed the rear of the
chamber itself, just inches away.

The other door opened into the Chamber Room, a fifteen-by-twelve
room with a painted concrete floor. The octagonal-shaped gas chamber
sat squarely in the middle, glowing smartly from a firesh coat of silver
enamel varnish and smelling like the same. Nugent had inspected it a
week earHer and ordered a new paint job. The death room, as it was also
known, was spotless and sanitized. The black drapes over the windows
behind the chamber were pulled.

Sam the rabbit was left in the bed of a pickup while a small guard,
about the same height and weight as Sam Cayhall, was led by two of his
larger colleagues into the Chamber Room. Nugent strutted and in-
spected like General Patton — pointing and nodding and frowning. The
small guard was pushed gently into the chamber first, then joined by the
two guards who turned him around and eased him into the wooden
chair. Without a word or a smile, neither a grin nor a joke, they strapped
his wrists first with leather bands to the arms of the chair. Then his
knees, then his ankles. Then one Ufted his head up an inch or two and
held it in place while the other managed to buckle the leather head strap.

The two guards stepped carefully firom the chamber, and Nugent
pointed to another member of the team who stepped forward as if to say
something to the condemned.

"At this point, Lucas Mann will read the death warrant to Mr.
Cayhall," Nugent explained Hke an amateur movie director. "Then I
will ask if he has any last words." He pointed again, and a designated
guard closed the heavy door to the chamber and sealed it.

"Open it," Nugent barked, and the door came open. The small guard
was set free.

"Get the rabbit," Nugent ordered. One of the handlers retrieved Sam
the rabbit firom the pickup. He sat innocently in a wire cage which was
handed to the same two guards who'd just left the chamber. They care-
fully placed him in the wooden chair, then went about their task of
strapping in an imaginary man. Wrists, knees, ankles, head, and the
rabbit was ready for the gas. The two guards left the chamber.

The door was shut and sealed, and Nugent signaled for the execu-
tioner, who placed a canister of sulfuric acid into a tube which ran into
the bottom of the chamber. He puUed a lever, a clicking sound oc-
curred, and the canister made its way to the bowl under the chair.

Nugent stepped to one of the windows and watched intently. The
other members of the team did likewise. Petroleum jelly had been
smeared around the edges of the windows to prevent seepage.

The poisonous gas was released slowly, and a faint mist of visible

THE CHAMBER 369

vapors rose from under the chair and drifted upward. At first, the rabbit
didn't react to the steam that permeated his httle cell, but it hit him soon
enough. He stiffened, then hopped a few times, banging into the sides of
his cage, then he went into violent convulsions, jumping and jerking and
twisting frantically. In less than a minute, he was still.

Nugent smiled as he glanced at his watch. "Clear it," he ordered, and
a vent at the top of the chamber was opened, releasing the gas.

The door from the Chamber Room to the outside was opened, and
most of the execution team walked out for fresh air or a smoke. It would
be at least fifteen minutes before the chamber could be opened and the
rabbit removed. Then they had to hose it down and clean up. Nugent
was still inside, watching everything. So they smoked and had a few
laughs.

Less than sixty feet away, the windows above the hallway of Tier A
were open. Sam could hear their voices. It was after ten and the lights
were off, but in every cell along the tier two arms protruded from the
bars as fourteen men listened in dark silence.

A death row inmate lives in a six-by-nine cell for twenty-three hours a
day. He hears everything — the strange clicking sound of a new pair of
boots in the haUway; the unfamiliar pitch and accent of a different voice;
the faraway hum of a lawn mower or weedeater. And he can certainly
hear the opening and closing of the door to the Chamber Room. He
can hear the satisfied and important chuckles of the execution team.

Sam leaned on his forearms and watched the windows above the
hallway. They were practicing for him out there.

FORTY

BETWEEN THE WESTERN EDGE of Highway 49 and the
front lawn of the administrative buildings of Parchman, a distance
of fifty yards, there was a grassy strip of land that was smooth and
noticeable because it was once a railroad track. It was where the death
penalty protestors were corralled and monitored at every execution.
They invariably arrived, usually small groups of committed souls who sat
in folding chairs and held homemade placards. They burned candles at
night and sang hymns during the final hours. They sang hymns, offered
prayers, and wept when the death was announced.

A new twist had occurred during the hours preceding the execution
of Teddy Doyle Meeks, a child rapist and killer. The somber, almost
sacred protest had been disrupted by carloads of unruly college students
who suddenly appeared without warning and had a deHghtful time de-
manding blood. They drank beer and played loud music. They chanted
slogans and heckled the shaken death protestors. The situation deterio-
rated as the two groups exchanged words. Prison officials moved in and
restored order.

Maynard Tole w^as next, and during the planning of his execution
another section of turf on the other side of the main drive was desig-
nated for the death penalty proponents. Extra security was assigned to
keep things peaceful.

When Adam arrived Friday morning, he counted seven Ku Klux
Klansmen in white robes. Three were engaged in some attempt at syn-
chronized protest, a casual walking along the edge of the grassy strip near
the highway with posters strung over their shoulders. The other four

THE CHAMBER 371

were erecting a large blue and white canopy. Metal poles and ropes were
scattered on the ground. Two ice chests sat next to several lawn chairs.
These guys were planning to stay awhile.

Adam stared at them as he rolled to a stop at the front gate of
Parchman. He lost track of time as he watched the Kluckers for minutes.
So this was his heritage, his roots. These were the brethren of his grand-
father and his grandfather's relatives and ancestors. Were some of these
figures the same ones who'd been recorded on film and edited by Adam
into the video about Sam Cayhall? Had he seen them before?

Instinctively, Adam opened the door of his car and got out. His coat
and briefcase were in the rear seat. He began walking slowly in their
direction, and stopped near their ice chests. Their placards demanded
freedom for Sam Cayhall, a political prisoner. Gas the real criminals, but
release Sam. For some reason, Adam was not comforted by their de-
mands.

"What do you want?" demanded one with a sign draped over his
chest. The other six stopped what they were doing and stared.

"I don't know," Adam said truthfully.

"Then what are you looking at?"

"I'm not sure."

Three others joined the first, and they stepped together near Adam.
Their robes were identical — white and made of a very light fabric with
red crosses and other markings. It was almost 9 a.m., and they were
already sweating. "Who the hell are you?"

"Sam's grandson."

The other three crowded behind the others, and all seven examined
Adam from a distance of no more than five feet. "Then you're on our
side," one said, relieved.

"No. I'm not one of you."

"That's right. He's with that bunch of Jews from Chicago," another
said for the edification of the rest, and this seemed to stir them up a bit.

"Why are you people here?" Adam asked.

"We're trying to save Sam. Looks hke you're not gonna do it."

"You're the reason he's here."

A young one with a red face and rows of sweat on his forehead took
the lead and walked even closer to Adam. "No. He's the reason we're
here. I wasn't even born when Sam kiUed those Jews, so you can't blame
it on me. We're here to protest his execution. He's being persecuted for
poHtical reasons."

"He wouldn't be here had it not been for the Klan. Where are your
masks? I thought you people always hid your faces."

They twitched and fidgeted as a group, uncertain what to do next. He

372 JOHN GRISHAM

was, after all, the grandson of Sam Cayhall, their idol and champion. He
was the lawyer trying to save a most precious symbol.

"Why don't you leave?" Adam asked. "Sam doesn't want you here."

"Why don't you go to hell?" the young one sneered.

"How eloquent. Just leave, okay. Sam's worth much more to you
dead than aHve. Let him die in peace, then you'll have a wonderflil
martyr."

"We ain't leavin'. We'U be here till the end."

"And what if Sam asks you to leave? WOl you go then?"

"No," he sneered again, then glanced over his shoulders at the others
who all seemed to agree that they would, in fact, not leave. "We plan to
make a lot of noise."

"Great. That'll get your pictures in the papers. That's what this is
about, isn't it? Circus clowns in funny costumes always attract attention."

Car doors slammed somewhere behind Adam, and as he looked
around he saw a television crew making a speedy exit from a van parked
near his Saab.

"Well, well," he said to the group. "Smile, feUas. This is your big
moment."

"Go to hell," the young one snapped angrily. Adam turned his back
to them and walked toward his car. A hurried reporter with a camera-
man in tow rushed to him.

"Are you Adam Hall?" she asked breathlessly. "CayhaU's lawyer?"

"Yes," he said without stopping.

"Could we have a few words?"

"No. But those boys are anxious to talk," he said, pointing over his
shoulder. She walked along beside him while the cameraman fumbled
with his equipment. Adam opened his car door, then slammed it as he
curned the ignition.

Louise, the guard at the gate, handed him a numbered card for his
dashboard, then waved him through.

PACKER WENT THROUGH the motions of the obHgatory frisk in-
side the front door of the Row. "What's in there?" he asked, pointing to
the small cooler Adam held in his left hand.

"Eskimo Pies, Sergeant. Would you like one?"

"Lemme see." Adam handed the cooler to Packer, who flipped open
the top just long enough to count half a dozen Eskimo Pies, still frozen
under a layer of ice.

He handed the cooler back to Adam, and pointed to the door of the
front ofrice, a few feet away. "Y'all will be meetin' in here from now
on," he explained. They stepped into the room.

THE CHAMBER 373

"Why?" Adam asked as he looked around the room. There was a
metal desk with a phone, three chairs, and two locked file cabinets.

"That's just the way we do things. We lighten up some as the big day
gets close. Sam gets to have his visitors here. No time limit either."

"How sweet." Adam placed his briefcase on the desk and picked up
the phone. Packer left to fetch Sam.

The kind lady in the clerk's office in Jackson informed Adam that the
Mississippi Supreme Court had denied, just minutes ago, his client's
petition for postconviction relief on the grounds that he was mentally
incompetent. He thanked her, said something to the effect that this was
what he expected and that it could've been done a day eariier, then
asked her to fax a copy of the court's decision to his office in Memphis,
and also to Lucas Mann's office at Parchman. He called Darlene in
Memphis and told her to fax the new petition to the federal district
court, with copies faxed to the Fifth Circuit and to Mr. Richard
dander's rather busy death desk at the Supreme Court in Washington.
He called Mr. Olander to inform him it was coming, and was told that
the U.S. Supreme Court had just denied cert on Adam's claim that the
gas chamber was unconstitutional.

Sam entered the front office without handcuffs while Adam was on
the phone. They shook hands quickly, and Sam took a seat. Instead of a
cigarette, he opened the cooler and removed an Eskimo Pie. He ate it
slowly while listening as Adam talked with Olander. "U.S. Supreme
Court just denied cert," Adam whispered to Sam with his hand over the
receiver.

Sam smiled oddly and studied some envelopes he'd brought with him.

"The Mississippi Supreme Court also turned us down," Adam ex-
plained to his cHent as he punched more numbers. "But that was to be
expected. We're filing it in federal court right now." He was calling the
Fifth Circuit to check the status of the ineffective counsel claim. The
clerk in New Orleans informed him that no action had been taken that
morning. Adam hung up and sat on the edge of the desk.

"Fifth Circuit is still sitting on the ineffectiveness claim," he reported
to his client, who knew the law and the procedure and was absorbing it
like a learned attorney. "All in all, not a very good morning."

"The Jackson TV station this morning said I've requested a clemency
hearing from the governor," Sam said, between bites. "Certainly this
can't be true. I didn't approve it."

"Relax, Sam. It's routine."

"Routine my ass. I thought we had an agreement. They even had
McAllister on the tube talking about how he was grieving over his
decision about a clemency hearing. I warned you."

374 JOHN GRISHAM

"McAllister is the least of our problems, Sam. The request was a
formality. We don't have to participate."

Sam shook his head in frustration. Adam watched him closely. He
wasn't really angry, nor did he really care what Adam had done. He was
resigned, almost defeated. The little bit of bitching came naturally. A
w^eek earlier he would' ve lashed out.

"They practiced last night, you know. They cranked up the gas cham-
ber, killed a rat or something, everything worked perfectly and so now
everyone's excited about my execution. Can you believe it? They had a
dress rehearsal for me. The bastards."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Do you know what cyanide gas smells like?"

"No."

"Cinnamon. It was in the air last night. The idiots didn't bother to
close the windows on our tier, and I got a whiff of it."

Adam didn't know if this was true or not. He knew the chamber was
vented for several minutes after an execution and the gas escaped into the
air. Surely it couldn't filter onto the tiers. Maybe Sam had heard stories
about the gas from the guards. Maybe it was just part of the lore. He sat
on the edge of the desk, casually swinging his feet, staring at the pitiful
old man with the skinny arms and oily hair. It was such a horrible sin to
kill an aged creature like Sam Cayhall. His crimes were committed a
generation ago. He had suffered and died many times in his six-by-nine
cell. How would the state benefit by killing him now?

Adam had things on his mind, not the least of which was perhaps their
last, gasping effort. "I'm sorry, Sam," he said again, very compassion-
ately. "But we need to talk about some items."

"Were there Klansmen outside this morning? The television had a
shot of them here yesterday."

"Yes. I counted seven a few minutes ago. Full uniforms except for the
masks."

"I used to wear one of those, you know," he said, much like a war
veteran bragging to little boys.

"I know, Sam. And because you wore one, you're now sitting here on
death row with your lawyer counting the hours before they strap you in
the gas chamber. You should hate those silly fools out there."

"I don't hate them. But they have no right to be here. They aban-
doned me. Dogan sent me here, and when he testified against me he was
the Imperial Wizard of Mississippi. They gave me not one dime for legal
fees. They forgot about me."

"What do you expect from a bunch of thugs? Loyalty?"

"I was loyal."

THE CHAMBER 375

"And look where you are, Sam. You should denounce the Klan and
ask them to leave, to stay away from your execution."

Sam fiddled with his envelopes, then placed them carefully in a chair.

"I told them to leave," Adam said.

"When?"

"Just a few minutes ago. I exchanged words with them. They don't
give a damn about you, Sam, they're just using this execution because
you'll make such a marvelous martyr, someone to rally around and talk
about for years to come. They'll chant your name when they burn
crosses, and they'll make pilgrimages to your gravesite. They want you
dead, Sam. It's great PR."

"You confronted them?" Sam asked, with a trace of amusement and
pride.

"Yeah. It was no big deal. What about Carmen? If she's coming, she
needs to make travel arrangements."

Sam took a thoughtful puff. "I'd like to see her, but you've gotta warn
her about my appearance. I don't want her to be shocked."

"You look great, Sam."

"Gee thanks. What about Lee?"

"What about her?"

"How's she doing? We get newspapers in here. I saw her in the
Memphis paper last Sunday, then I read about her drunk driving charge
on Tuesday. She's not in jail, is she?"

"No. She's in a rehab clinic," Adam said as if he knew exactly where
she was.

"Can she come visit?"

"Do you want her to?"

"I think so. Maybe on Monday. Let's wait and see."

"No problem," Adam said, wondering how in the world he could
fmd her. "I'll talk to her over the weekend."

Sam handed Adam one of the envelopes, unsealed. "Give this to the
people up front. It's a list of approved visitors from now until then. Go
ahead, open it."

Adam looked at the list. There were four names. Adam, Lee, Carmen,
and Donnie Cayhall. "Not a very long list."

"I have lots of relatives, but I don't want them here. They haven't
visited me in nine and a half years, so I'll be damned if they'll come
draggin' in here at the last minute to say good-bye. They can save it for
the funeral."

"I'm getting all kinds of requests from reporters and journalists for
interviews."

"Forget it."

376 JOHN GRISHAM

"That's what I've told them. But there's one inquiry that might inter-
est you. There's a man named Wendall Sherman, an author of some
repute who's pubHshed four or five books and won some awards. I
haven't read any of his work, but he checks out. He's legitimate. I talked
to him yesterday by phone, and he wants to sit with you and record your
story. He seemed to be very honest, and said that the recording could
take hours. He's flying to Memphis today, just in case you say yes."

"Why does he want to record me?"

"He wants to write a book about you."

"A romance novel?"

"I doubt it. He's willing to pay fifty thousand dollars up front, with a
percentage of the royalties later on."

"Great. I get fifty thousand a few days before I die. What shall I do
with it?"

"I'm just relaying the offer."

"Tell him to go to hell. I'm not interested."

"Fine."

"I want you to draw up an agreement whereby I assign all rights to
my life story to you, and after I'm gone you do whatever the hell you
want with it."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea to record it."

"You mean — "

"Talk into a Httle machine with Httle tapes. I can get one for you. Sit
in your cell and talk about your life."

"How boring." Sam finished the Eskimo Pie and tossed the stick in
the wastebasket.

"Depends on how you look at it. Things seem rather exciting now."

"Yeah, you're right. A pretty dull Hfe, but the end was sensational."

"Sounds Uke a bestseller to me."

"I'll think about it."

Sam suddenly jumped to his feet, leaving the rubber shower shoes
under his chair. He loped across the office in long strides, measuring and
smoking as he went. "Thirteen by sixteen and a half," he mumbled to
himself, then measured some more.

Adam made notes on a legal pad and tried to ignore the red figure
bouncing off the walls. Sam finally stopped and leaned on a file cabinet.
"I want you to do me a favor," he said, staring at a waU across the room.
His voice was much lower. He breathed slowly.

"I'm listening," Adam said.

Sam took a step to the chair and picked up an envelope. He handed it
to Adam and returned to his position against the file cabinet. The enve-
lope was turned over so that Adam could not see the writing on it.

THE CHAMBER 377

"I want you to deliver that," Sam said.

"To whom?"

"Quince Lincoln."

Adam placed it to his side on the desk, and watched Sam carefully.
Sam, however, was lost in another world. His wrinkled eyes stared
blankly at something on the wall across the room. "I've worked on it for
a week," he said, his voice almost hoarse, "but I've thought about it for
forty years."

"What's in the letter?" Adam asked slowly.

"An apology. I've carried the guilt for many years, Adam. Joe Lincoln
was a good and decent man, a good father. I lost my head and killed him
for no reason. And I knew before I shot him that 1 could get by with it.
I've always felt bad about it. Real bad. There's nothing I can do now
except say that I'm sorry."

"I'm sure it'll mean something to the Lincolns."

"Maybe. In the letter I ask them for forgiveness, which I believe is the
Christian way of doing things. When I die, I'd like to have the knowl-
edge that I tried to say I'm sorry."

"Any idea where I might fmd him?"

"That's the hard part. I've heard through family that the Lincolns are
still in Ford County. Ruby, his widow, is probably still alive. I'm afraid
you'll just have to go to Clanton and start asking questions. They have an
African sheriff, so I'd start with him. He probably knows all the Africans
in the county."

"And if I fmd Quince?"

"TeU him who you are. Give him the letter. Tell him that I died with
a lot of guilt. Can you do that?"

"I'll be happy to. I'm not sure when I can do it."

"Wait until I'm dead. You'll have plenty of time once this is over."

Sam again walked to the chair, and this time picked up two envelopes.
He handed them to Adam, and began pacing slowly, back and forth
across the room. The name of Ruth Kramer was typed on one, no
address, and Elliot Kramer on the other. "Those are for the Kramers.
Deliver them, but wait until the execution is over."

"Why wait?"

"Because my motives are pure. I don't want them to think I'm doing
this to arouse sympathy in my dying hours."

Adam placed the Kramer letters next to Quince Lincoln's — three let-
ters, three dead bodies. How many more letters would Sam crank out
over the weekend? How many more victims were out there?

"You're sure you're about to die, aren't you, Sam?"

378 JOHN GRISHAM

He stopped by the door and pondered this for a moment. "The odds
are against us. I'm getting prepared."

"We still have a chance."

"Sure we do. But I'm getting ready, just in case. I've hurt a lot of
people, Adam, and I haven't always stopped to think about it. But when
you have a date w^ith the grim reaper, you think about the damage
you've done."

Adam picked up the three envelopes and looked at them. "Are there
others?"

Sam grimaced and looked at the floor. "That's aU, for now."

THE JACKSON PAPER on Friday morning carried a front-page story
about Sam Cayhall's request for a clemency hearing. The story included
a sHck photo of Governor David McAlHster, a bad one of Sam, and lots
of self-serving comments by Mona Stark, the governor's chief of staff, all
to the effect that the governor was struggHng with the decision.

Since he was a real man of the people, a regular servant to aU Missis-
sippians, McAllister had installed an expensive telephone hotUne system
shortly after he was elected. The toll-free number was plastered aU over
the state, and his constituents w^ere constantly barraged with pubHc ser-
vice ads to use the People's Hotline. Call the governor. He cared about
your opinions. Democracy at its finest. Operators were standing by.

And because he had more ambition than fortitude, McAllister and his
staff tracked the phone calls on a daily basis. He was a follower, not a
leader. He spent serious money on poUs, and had proven adept at quietly
discovering the issues that bothered people, then jumping out firont to
lead the parade.

Both Goodman and Adam suspected this. McAllister seemed too ob-
sessed with his destiny to launch new initiatives. The man was a shame-
less vote-counter, so they had decided to give him something to count.

Goodman read the story early, over coffee and fruit, and by seven-
thirty w^as on the phone with Professor John Bryan Glass and Hez Kerry.
By eight, three of Glass' students were sipping coffee from paper cups in
the grungy, temporary office. The marketing analysis was about to be-
gin.

Goodman explained the scheme and the need for secrecy. They were
breaking no laws, he assured them, just manipulating public opinion.
The cellular phones were on the tables, along with pages of phone
numbers Goodman had copied on Wednesday. The students were a Httle
apprehensive, but nonetheless anxious to begin. They would be paid
well. Goodman demonstrated the technique with the first call. He dialed
the number.

THE CHAMBER 379

"People's Hotline," a pleasant voice answered.

"Yes, I'm calling about the story in this morning's paper, the one
about Sam Cayhall," Goodman said slowly in his best imitation of a
drawl. It left a lot to be desired. The students were very amused.

"And your name is?"

"Yes, I'm Ned Lancaster, from Biloxi, Mississippi," Goodman replied,
reading from the phone lists. "And I voted for the governor, a fme
man," he threw in for good measure.

"And how do you feel about Sam Cayhall?"

"I don't think he should be executed. He's an old man who's suffered
a lot, and I want the governor to give him a pardon. Let him die in peace
up there at Parchman."

"Okay. I'll make sure the governor knows about your call."

"Thank you."

Goodman pushed a button on the phone, and took a bow before his
audience. "Nothing to it. Let's get started."

The white male selected a phone number. His conversation went
something like this: "HeUo, this is Lester Crosby, from Bude, Missis-
sippi. I'm calling about the execution of Sam Cayhall. Yes ma'am. My
number? It's 555-9084. Yes, that's right, Bude, Mississippi, down here in
Franklin County. That's right. Well, I don't think Sam Cayhall ought to
be sent to the gas chamber. I'm just opposed to it. I think the governor
should step in and stop this thing. Yes ma'am, that's right. Thank you."
He smiled at Goodman, who was punching another number.

The white female was a middle-aged student. She was from a small
town in a rural section of the state, and her accent was naturally twangy.
"HeUo, is this the governor's office? Good. I'm calling about the CayhaD
story in today's paper. Susan Barnes. Decatur, Mississippi. That's right.
Well, he's an old man who'll probably die in a few years anyway. What
good will it do for the state to kill him now? Give the guy a break.
What? Yes, I want the governor to stop it. I voted for the governor, and I
think he's a fine man. Yes. Thank you too."

The black male was in his late twenties. He simply informed the
hothne operator that he was a black Mississippian, very much opposed to
the ideas Sam Cayhall and the Klan promoted, but nonetheless opposed
to the execution. "The government does not have the right to deter-
mine if someone lives or dies," he said. He did not favor the death
penalty under any circumstances.

And so it went. The calls poured in from all over the state, one after
the other, each from a different person with a different logic for stopping
the execution. The students became creative, trying assorted accents and
novel reasonings. Occasionally, their calls would hit busy signals, and it

380 JOHN GRISHAM

was amusing to know that they had jammed the hotHne. Because of his
crisp accent, Goodman assumed the role of the outsider, sort of a travel-
ing death penalty abolitionist \vho bounced in from all over the country
with a dazzling array of ethnic aliases and strange locales.

Goodman had w^orried that McAlHster might be paranoid enough to
trace the calls to his hotline, but had decided that the operators w^ould be
too busy.

And busy they were. Across town, John Bryan Glass canceled a class
and locked the door to his office. He had a delightful time making
repeated calls under all sorts of names. Not far from him, Hez Kerry and
one of his staff attorneys were also bombarding the hotline with the same
messages.

ADAM HURRIED to Memphis. Darlene was in his office, trying
vainly to organize the mountain of paperwork. She pointed to a stack
nearest his computer. "The decision denying cert is on top, then the
decision from the Mississippi Supreme Court. Next to it is the petition
for writ of habeas corpus to be filed in federal district court. I've already
faxed everything."

Adam removed his jacket and threw it on a chair. He looked at a row
of pink telephone messages tacked to a bookshelf. "Who are these peo-
ple?"

"Reporters, writers, quacks, a couple are other lawyers offering their
assistance. One is from Garner Goodman in Jackson. He said the market
analysis is going fine, don't call. What is the market analysis?"

"Don't ask. No word from the Fifth Circuit?"

"No."

Adam took a deep breath and eased into his chair.

"Lunch?" she asked.

"Just a sandwich, if you don't mind. Can you work tomorrow and
Sunday?"

"Of course."

"I need for you to stay here all weekend, by the phone and the fax.
I'm sorry."

"I don't mind. I'll get a sandwich."

She left, closing the door behind her. Adam called Lee's condo, and
there was no answer. He called the Auburn House, but no one had
heard from her. He called Phelps Booth, who was in a board meeting.
He called Carmen in Berkeley and told her to make arrangements to fly
to Memphis on Sunday.

He looked at the phone messages, and decided none were worth
returning.

THE CHAMBER 381

AT ONE O'CLOCK, Mona Stark spoke to the press loitering around
the governor's office in the capitol. She said that after much deUberation,
the governor had decided to grant a clemency hearing on Monday at 10
A.M., at which time the governor would listen to the issues and appeals,
and make a fair decision. It was an awesome responsibility, she ex-
plained, this weighing of life or death. But David McAllister would do
what was just and right.

FORTY-ONE

PACKER WENT TO THE CELL at five-thirty Saturday morn-
ing, and didn't bother with the handcuffs. Sam was waiting, and
they quietly left Tier A. They walked through the kitchen where
the trustees were scrambUng eggs and frying bacon. Sam had never seen
the kitchen, and he walked slowly, counting his steps, checking the
dimensions. Packer opened a door and motioned for Sam to hurry and
follow. They stepped outside, into the darkness. Sam stopped and looked
at the square brick room to his right, the Httle building that housed the
gas chamber. Packer pulled his elbow, and they walked together to the
east end of the row where another guard vv^as watching and waiting. The
guard handed Sam a large cup of coffee, and led him through a gate into
a recreation yard similar to the bullpens on the west end of the Row. It
was fenced and wired, with a basketball goal and two benches. Packer
said he would return in an hour, and left with the guard.

Sam stood in place for a long time, sipping the hot coffee and absorb-
ing the landscape. His first cell had been on Tier D, on the east wing,
and he'd been here many times before. He knew the exact dimensions —
fifty-one feet by thirty-six. He saw the guard in the tower sitting under a
hght and watching him. Through the fences and over the tops of the
rows of cotton, he could see the hghts of other buildings. He slowly
walked to a bench and sat down.

How thoughtful of these kind people to grant his request to see one
final sunrise. He hadn't seen one in nine and a half years, and at first
Nugent said no. Then Packer intervened, and explained to the colonel

THE CHAMBER 383

that it was okay, no security risk at all, and what the hell, the man was
supposed to die in four days. Packer would take responsibility for it.

Sam stared at the eastern sky, where a hint of orange was peeking
through scattered clouds. During his early days on the Row, when his
appeals were fresh and unresolved, he had spent hours remembering the
glorious humdrum of everyday life, the little things like a warm shower
every day, the companionship of his dog, extra honey on his biscuits. He
actually believed back then that one day he would again be able to hunt
squirrels and quail, to fish for bass and bream, to sit on the porch and
watch the sun come up, to drink coffee in town, and drive his old
pickup wherever he wanted. His goal during those early fantasies on the
Row had been to fly to California and fmd his grandchildren. He had
never flown.

But the dreams of freedom had died long ago, driven away by the
tedious monotony of Ufe in a cell, and kiUed by the harsh opinions of
many judges.

This would be his fmal sunrise, he truly believed that. Too many
people wanted him dead. The gas chamber was not being used often
enough. It was time for an execution, dammit, and he was next in line.

The sky grew brighter and the clouds dissipated. Though he was
forced to watch this magnificent act of nature through a chain-Hnk
fence, it was satisfying nonetheless. Just a few more days and the fences
would be gone. The bars and razor wire and prison cells would be left
for someone else.

TWO REPORTERS smoked cigarettes and drank machine coffee as
they waited by the south entrance to the capitol early Saturday morning.
Word had been leaked that the governor would spend a long day at the
office, strugghng with the Cayhall thing.

At seven-thirty, his black Lincoln rolled to a stop nearby, and he made
a quick exit from it. Two well-dressed bodyguards escorted him to the
entrance, with Mona Stark a few steps behind.

"Governor, do you plan to attend the execution?" the first reporter
asked hurriedly. McAllister smiled and raised his hands as if he'd love to
stop and chat but things were much too critical for that. Then he saw a
camera hanging from the other reporter's neck.

"I haven't made a decision yet," he answered, stopping just for a
second.

"Will Ruth Kramer testify at the clemency hearing on Monday?"

The camera was raised and ready. "I can't say right now," he an-
swered, smiling into the lens. "Sorry, guys, I can't talk now."

He entered the building and rode the elevator to his office on the

384 JOHN GRISHAM

second floor. The bodyguards assumed their positions in the foyer, be-
hind morning newspapers.

La'wyer Larramore was waiting with his updates. He explained to the
governor and Ms. Stark that there had been no changes in the various
Cayhall petitions and appeals since 5 p.m. yesterday. Nothing had hap-
pened overnight. The appeals were becoming more desperate, and the
courts would deny them more quickly, in his opinion. He had already
spoken with Morris Henry at the AG's office, and, in the learned judg-
ment of Dr. Death, there was now an 80 percent chance that the execu-
tion would take place.

"What about the clemency hearing on Monday? Any word from
Cayhall's lawyers?" McAllister asked.

"No. I asked Garner Goodman to stop by at nine this morning.
Thought we'd talk to him about it. I'll be in my oflfice if you need me."

Larramore excused himself Ms. Stark was performing her morning
ritual of scanning the dailies from around the state and placing them on
the conference table. Of the nine papers she monitored, the Cayhall
story was on the front page of eight. The announcement of a clemency
hearing was of special interest Saturday morning. Three of the papers
carried the same AP photo of the Klansmen roasting idly under the
fierce August sun outside of Parchman.

McAllister removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and began peering
over the papers. "Get the numbers," he said tersely.

Mona left the office, and returned in less than a minute. She carried a
computer printout, which obviously bore dreadful news.

"I'm Hstening," he said.

"The calls stopped around nine last night, last one was at nine-o-
seven. The total for the day was four hundred and eighty-six, and at least
ninety percent voiced strong opposition to the execution."

"Ninety percent," McAlHster said in disbeHef He was no longer in
shock, though. By noon yesterday, the hotHne operators had reported an
unusual number of calls, and by one Mona was analyzing printouts.
They had spent much of yesterday afternoon staring at the numbers,
contemplating the next move. He had slept Httle.

"Who are these people?" he said, staring through a window.

"Your constituents. The calls are coming firom all over the state. The
names and numbers appear to be legitimate."

"What was the old record?"

"I don't know. Seems Hke we had around a hundred one day when
the legislature gave itself another pay raise. But nothing Hke this."

"Ninety percent," he mumbled again.

THE CHAMBER 385

"And there's something else. There were lots of other calls to various
numbers in this office. My secretary took a dozen or so."

"All for Sam, right?"

"Yes, all opposed to the execution. I've talked to some of our people,
and everybody got nailed yesterday. And Roxburgh called me at home
last night and said that his office had been besieged with calls against the
execution."

"Good. I want him to sweat too."

"Do we close the hotline?"

"How many operators work on Saturday and Sunday?"

"Only one."

"No. Leave it open today. Let's see what happens today and tomor-
row." He walked to another window and loosened his tie. "When does
the polling start?"

"Three this afternoon."

"I'm anxious to see those numbers."

"They could be just as bad."

"Ninety percent," he said, shaking his head.

"Over ninety percent," Mona corrected him.

THE WAR ROOM was littered with pizza boxes and beer cans, evi-
dence of a long day of market analysis. A tray of fresh doughnuts and a
row of tall paper coffee cups now awaited the analysts, two of whom had
just arrived with newspapers. Garner Goodman stood at the window
with a new pair of binoculars, watching the capitol three blocks away,
and paying particular attention to the windows of the governor's office.
During a moment of boredom yesterday, he'd gone to a mall in search of
a bookstore. He'd found the binoculars in the window of a leather shop,
and throughout the afternoon they'd had great fun trying to catch the
governor pondering through his windows, no doubt wondering where
all those damned calls were coming from.

The students devoured the doughnuts and newspapers. There was a
brief but serious discussion about some obvious procedural deficiencies
in Mississippi's postconviction relief statutes. The third member of the
shift, a first-year student from New Orleans, arrived at eight, and the
calls started.

It was immediately apparent that the hotline was not as efficient as the
day before. It was difficult to get through to an operator. No problem.
They used alternate numbers — the switchboard at the governor's man-
sion, the lines to the cute little regional offices he'd established, amid
great fanfare, around the state so that he, a common man, could stay
close to the people.

386 JOHN GRISHAM

The people were calling.

Goodman left the office and walked along Congress Street to the
capitol. He heard the sounds of a loudspeaker being tested, and then saw
the Klansmen. They were organizing themselves, at least a dozen in fuU
parade dress, around the monument to Confederate women at the base
of the front steps to the capitol. Goodman walked by them, actually said
hello to one, so that when he returned to Chicago he could say he talked
to some real Kluckers.

The two reporters who'd waited for the governor were now on the
front steps watching the scene below. A local television crew arrived as
Goodman entered the capitol.

The governor was too busy to meet with him, Mona Stark explained
gravely, but Mr. Larramore could spare a few minutes. She looked a bit
frazzled, and this pleased Goodman greatly. He followed her to Lar-
ramore's office ^vhere they found the lawyer on the phone. Goodman
hoped it was one of his calls. He obediently took a seat. Mona closed the
door and left them.

"Good morning," Larramore said as he hung up.

Goodman nodded politely, and said, "Thanks for the hearing. We
didn't expect the governor to grant one, in Hght of what he said on
Wednesday."

"He's under a lot of pressure. We all are. Is your cHent willing to talk
about his accomplice?"

"No. There's been no change."

Larramore ran his fingers through his sticky hair and shook his head in
frustration. "Then what's the purpose of a clemency hearing? The gov-
ernor is not going to budge on this, Mr. Goodman."

"We're working on Sam, okay. We're talking to him. Let's plan on
going through with the hearing on Monday. Maybe Sam will change his
mind."

The phone rang and Larramore snatched it angrily. "No, this is not
the governor's office. Who is this?" He scribbled down a name and
phone number. "This is the governor's legal department." He closed his
eyes and shook his head. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you voted for the governor."
He listened some more. "Thank you, Mr. Hurt. I'll teU the governor
you called. Yes, thanks."

He returned the receiver to the phone. "So, Mr. Gilbert Hurt from
Dumas, Mississippi, is against the execution," he said, staring at the
phone, dazed. "The phones have gone crazy."

"Lots of calls, huh?" Goodman asked, sympathetically.

"You wouldn't believe."

"For or against?"

THE CHAMBER 387

"About fifty-fifty, I'd say," Larraniore said. He took the phone again
and punched in the number for Mr. Gilbert Hurt of Dumas, Mississippi.
No one answered. "This is strange," he said, hanging up again. "The
man just called me, left a legitimate number, now there's no answer."

"Probably just stepped out. Try again later." Goodman hoped he
wouldn't have the time to try again later. In the first hour of the market
analysis yesterday, Goodman had made a slight change in technique. He
had instructed his callers to first check the phone numbers to make
certain there was no answer. This prevented some curious type such as
Larramore or perhaps a nosy hotHne operator from calling back and
finding the real person. Odds were the real person would greatly support
the death penalty. It slowed things a bit for the market analysts, but
Goodman felt safer with it.

"I'm working on an outline for the hearing," Larramore said, "just in
case. We'll probably have it in the House Ways and Means Committee
Room, just down the hall."

"Will It be closed?"

"No. Is this a problem?"

"We have four days left, Mr. Larramore. Everything's a problem. But
the hearing belongs to the governor. We're just thankful he's granted
one."

"I have your numbers. Keep in touch."

"I'm not leaving Jackson until this is over."

They shook hands quickly and Goodman left the office. He sat on the
front steps for half an hour and watched the Klansmen get organized and
attract the curious.

FORTY-TWO

THOUGH HE'D WORN a white robe and a pointed hood as a
much younger man, Donnie Cayhall kept his distance from the
Hnes of Klansmen patrolling the grassy strip near the front gate of
Parchman. Security was tight, with armed guards watching the protes-
tors. Next to the canopy where the Klansmen gathered was a small
group of skinheads in brown shirts. They held signs demanding freedom
for Sam Cayhall.

Donnie watched the spectacle for a moment, then followed the direc-
tions of a security guard and parked along the highway. His name was
checked at the guardhouse, and a few minutes later a prison van came for
him. His brother had been at Parchman for nine and a half years, and
Donnie had tried to visit at least once a year. But the last visit had been
two years ago, he was ashamed to admit.

Donnie Cayhall was sixty-one, the youngest of the four Cayhall broth-
ers. All had followed the teachings of their father and joined the Klan in
their teens. It had been a simple decision with Httle thought given to it,
one expected by the entire family. Later he had joined the Army, fought
in Korea, and traveled the world. In the process, he had lost interest in
wearing robes and burning crosses. He left Mississippi in 1961, and went
to work for a furniture company in North CaroHna. He now lived near
Durham.

Every month for nine and a half years, he had shipped to Sam a box of
cigarettes and a small amount of cash. He'd written a few letters, but
neither he nor Sam were interested in correspondence. Few people in
Durham knew he had a brother on death row.

THE CHAMBER 389

He was frisked inside the front door, and shown to the front office.
Sam was brought in a few minutes later, and they were left alone. Don-
nie hugged him for a long time, and when they released each other both
had moist eyes. They were of similar height and build, though Sam
looked twenty years older. He sat on the edge of the desk and Donnie
took a chair nearby.

Both lit cigarettes and stared into space.

"Any good news?" Donnie finally asked, certain of the answer.

"No. None. The courts are turning everything down. They're gonna
do it, Donnie. They're gonna kill me. They'U walk me to the chamber
and gas me like an animal."

Donnie's face fell to his chest. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"I'm sorry too, but, dammit, I'll be glad when it's over."

"Don't say that."

"I mean it. I'm tired of Uving in a cage. I'm an old man and my time
has come."

"But you don't deserve to be killed, Sam."

"That's the hardest part, you know. It's not that I'm gonna die, hell,
we're all dying. I just can't stand the thought of these jackasses getting
the best of me. They're gonna win. And their reward is to strap me in
and watch me choke. It's sick."

"Can't your lawyer do something?"

"He's trying everything, but it looks hopeless. I want you to meet
him."

"I saw his picture in the paper. He doesn't resemble our people."

"He's lucky. He looks more like his mother."

"Sharp kid?"

Sam managed a smile. "Yeah, he's pretty terrific. He's really grieving
over this."

"Will he be here today?"

"Probably. I haven't heard from him. He's staying with Lee in Mem-
phis," Sam said with a touch of pride. Because of him, his daughter and
his grandson had become close and were actually living together peace-
fully.

"I talked to Albert this morning," Donnie said. "He says he's too sick
to come over."

"Good. I don't want him here. And I don't want his kids and
grandkids here either."

"He wants to pay his respects, but he can't."

"Tell him to save it for the funeral."

"Come on, Sam."

390 JOHN GRISHAM

"Look, no one's gonna cry for me when I'm dead. I don't want a lot
of false pity before then.

"I need something from you, Donnie. And it'll cost a little money."

"Sure. Anything."

Sam pulled at the waist of his red jumpsuit. "You see this damned
thing. They're called reds, and I've "worn them every day for almost ten
years. This is what the State of Mississippi expects me to wear when it
kills me. But, you see, I have the right to wear anything I want. It v^ould
mean a lot if I die in some nice clothes."

Donnie was suddenly hit with emotion. He tried to speak, but words
didn't come. His eyes were wet and his Up quivered. He nodded, and
managed to say, "Sure, Sam."

"You knoAV those \vork pants called Dickies? I wore them for years.
Sort of like khakis."

Donnie was still nodding.

"A pair of them would be nice, with a white shirt of some sort, not a
pullover but one with buttons on it. Small shirt, small pants, thirty-two
in the waist. A pair of white socks, and some kind of cheap shoes. Hell,
I'U just wear them once, won't I? Go to Wal-Mart or some place and
you can probably get the whole thing for less than thirty bucks. Do you
mind?"

Donnie "wiped his eyes and tried to smile. "No, Sam."

"I'U be a dude, won't I?"

"Where wiU you be buried?"

"Clanton, next to Anna. I'm sure that'U upset her peaceful rest.
Adam's taking care of the arrangements."

"What else can I do?"

"Nothing. If you'U just get me a change of clothes."

"I'U do it today."

"You're the only person in the "world who's cared about me aU these
years, do you kno"w that? Aunt Barb wrote me for years before she died,
but her letters were always stiff and dry, and I figured she was doing it so
she could teU her neighbors."

"Who the heU "was Aunt Barb?"

"Hubert Cain's mother. I'm not even sure she's related to us. I hardly
knew her until I arrived here, then she started this awful correspon-
dence. She was just aU tore up by the fact that one of her own had been
sent to Parchman."

"May she rest in peace."

Sam chuckled, and was reminded of an ancient chUdhood story. He
told it with great enthusiasm, and minutes later both brothers were

THECHAMBER 391

laughing loudly. Donnie was reminded of another tale, and so it went for
an hour.

BY THE TIME Adam arrived late Saturday afternoon, Donnie had
been gone for hours. He was taken to the front office, where he spread
some papers on the desk. Sam was brought in, his handcuffs removed,
and the door was closed behind them. He held more envelopes, which
Adam noticed immediately.

"More errands for me?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yeah, but they can wait until it's over."

"To whom?"

"One is to the Pinder family I bombed in Vicksburg. One is to the
Jewish synagogue I bombed in Jackson. One is to the Jewish real estate
agent, also in Jackson. There may be others. No hurry, since I know
you're busy right now. But after I'm gone, I'd appreciate it if you'd take
care of them."

"What do these letters say?"

"What do you think they say?"

"I don't know. That you're sorry, I guess."

"Smart boy. I apologize for my deeds, repent of my sins, and ask them
to forgive me."

"Why are you doing this?"

Sam stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. "Because I sit in a little cage
all day. Because I have a typewriter and plenty of paper. I'm bored as
heU, okay, so maybe I want to write. Because I have a conscience, not
much of one, but it's there, and the closer I get to death the guiltier I feel
about the things I've done."

"I'm sorry. They'll be delivered." Adam circled something on his
checklist. "We have two appeals left. The Fifth Circuit is sitting on the
ineffectiveness claim. I expected something by now, but there's been no
movement for two days. The district court has the mental claim."

"It's all hopeless, Adam."

"Maybe, but I'm not quitting. I'll file a dozen more petitions if I have
to."

"I'm not signing anything else. You can't file them if I don't sign
them."

"Yes, I can. There are ways."

"Then you're fired."

"You can't fire me, Sam. I'm your grandson."

"We have an agreement saying I can fire you whenever I want. We
put it in writing."

392 JOHN GRISHAM

"It's a flawed document, drafted by a decent jailhouse lawyer, but
fatally defective nonetheless."

Sam huffed and puffed and began striding again on his row of tiles. He
made half a dozen passes in front of Adam, his lawyer now, tomorrow,
and for the remainder of his Hfe. He knew he couldn't fire him.

"We have a clemency hearing scheduled for Monday," Adam said,
looking at his legal pad and waiting for the explosion. But Sam took it
well and never missed a step.

"What's the purpose of the clemency hearing?" he asked.

"To appeal for clemency."

"Appeal to whom?"

"The governor."

"And you think the governor will consider granting me clemency?"

"What's there to lose?"

"Answer the question, smartass. Do you, with all your training, expe-
rience, and judicial brilliance, seriously expect this governor to entertain
ideas of granting me clemency?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe my ass. You're stupid."

"Thank you, Sam."

"Don't mention it." He stopped directly in front of Adam and
pointed a crooked fmger at him. "I've told you from the very beginning
that I, as the client and as such certainly entitled to some consideration,
will have nothing to do with David McAllister. I will not appeal to that
fool for clemency. I will not ask him for a pardon. I will have no contact
with him, whatsoever. Those are my w^ishes, and I made this very plain
to you, young man, from day one. You, on the other hand, as the lawyer,
have ignored my wishes and gone about your merry business doing
whatever the heU you wanted. You are the lawyer, nothing more or less.
I, on the other hand, am the client, and I don't know what they taught
you in your fancy law school, but I make the decisions."

Sam walked to an empty chair and picked up another envelope. He
handed it to Adam, and said, "This is a letter to the governor requesting
him to cancel the clemency hearing on Monday. If you refuse to get it
canceled, then I will make copies of this and give it to the press. I wiU
embarrass you. Garner Goodman, and the governor. Do you under-
stand?"

"Plain enough."

Sam returned the envelope to the chair, and lit another cigarette.

Adam made another circle on his Hst. "Carmen will be here Monday.
I'm not sure about Lee."

THE CHAMBER 393

Sam eased to a chair and sat down. He did not look at Adam. "Is she
still in rehab?"

"Yes, and I'm not sure when she'll get out. Do you want her to visit?"

"Let me think about it."

"Think fast, okay."

"Funny, real funny. My brother Donnie stopped by earlier. He's my
youngest brother, you know. He wants to meet you."

"Was he in the Klan?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"It's a simple yes or no question."

"Yes. He was in the Klan."

"Then I don't want to meet him."

"He's not a bad guy."

"I'll take your word for it."

"He's my brother, Adam. I want you to meet my brother."

"I have no desire to meet new Cayhalls, Sam, especially ones who
wore robes and hoods."

"Oh, really. Three weeks ago you wanted to know everything about
the family. Just couldn't get enough of it."

"I surrender, okay? I've heard enough."

"Oh, there's lots more."

"Enough, enough. Spare me."

Sam grunted and smiled smugly to himself Adam glanced at his legal
pad, and said, "You'll be happy to know that the Kluckers outside have
now been joined by some Nazis and Aryans and skinheads and other
hate groups. They're all lined along the highway, waving posters at cars
passing by. The posters, of course, demand the freedom of Sam Cayhall,
their hero. It's a regular circus."

"I saw it on television."

"They're also marching in Jackson around the state capitol."

"This is my fault?"

"No. It's your execution. You're a symbol now. About to become a
martyr."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Nothing. Just go ahead and die, and they'll all be happy."

"Aren't you an asshole today?"

"Sorry, Sam. The pressure's getting to me."

"Throw in the towel. I have. I highly recommend it."

"Forget it. I've got these clowns on the run, Sam. I have not yet
begun to fight."

"Yeah, you've filed three petitions, and a total of seven courts have
turned you down. Zero for seven. I hate to see what'll happen when you

394 JOHN GRISHAM

really get cranked up." Sam said this with a wicked smile, and the humor
found its mark. Adam laughed at it, and both breathed a bit easier. "I
have this great idea for a lawsuit after you're gone," he said, feigning
excitement.

"After I'm gone?"

"Sure. We'll sue them for wrongful death. We'll name McAUister,
Nugent, Roxburgh, the State of Mississippi. We'll bring in everybody."

"It's never been done," Sam said, stroking his beard, as if deep in
thought.

"Yeah, I know. Thought of it all by myself. We might not win a dime,
but think of the fun I'll have harassing those bastards for the next five
years."

"You have my permission to file it. Sue them!"

The smiles slowly disappeared and the humor was gone. Adam found
something else on his checklist. "Just a couple more items. Lucas Mann
asked me to ask you about your witnesses. You're entitled to have two
people in the witness room, in case this gets that far."

"Donnie doesn't want to do it. I will not allow you to be there. I can't
imagine anybody else who'd want to see it."

"Fine. Speaking of them, I have at least thirty requests for interviews.
Virtually every major paper and news magazine wants access."

"No."

"Fine. Remember that writer we discussed last time, Wendall Sher-
man? The one who wants to record your story on tape and — "

"Yeah. For fifty thousand bucks."

"Now it's a hundred thousand. His pubHsher will put up the money.
He wants to get everything on tape, watch the execution, do extensive
research, then write a big book about it."

"No."
rme.

"I don't want to spend the next three days talking about my life. I
don't want some stranger poking his nose around Ford County. And I
don't particularly need a hundred thousand dollars at this point in my
Ufe."

"Fine with me. You once mentioned the clothing you wanted to
wear — "

"Donnie's taking care of it."

"Okay. Moving right along. Barring a stay, you're allowed to have
two people with you during your final hours. Typically, the prison has a
form for you to sign designating these people."

"It's always the lawyer and the minister, right?"

"That's correct."

THE CHAMBER 395

"Then it's you, and Ralph GrifFin, I guess."

Adam filled the names in on a form. "Who's Ralph Griffin?"

"The new minister here. He's opposed to the death penalty, can you
beUeve it? His predecessor thought we should aU be gassed, in the name
of Jesus, of course."

Adam handed the form to Sam. "Sign here."

Sam scribbled his name and handed it back.

"You're entitled to a last conjugal visit."

Sam laughed loudly. "Come on, son. I'm an old man."

"It's on the checklist, okay. Lucas Mann whispered to me the other
day that I should mention it to you."

"Okay. You've mentioned it."

"I have another form here for your personal effects. Who gets them?"

"You mean my estate?"

"Sort of."

"This is morbid as hell, Adam. Why are we doing this now?"

"I'm a lawyer, Sam. We get paid to sweat the details. It's just paper-
work."

"Do you want my things?"

Adam thought about this for a moment. He didn't want to hurt Sam's
feelings, but at the same time he couldn't imagine what he'd do with a
few ragged old garments, worn books, portable television, and rubber
shower shoes. "Sure," he said.

"Then they're yours. Take them and burn them."

"Sign here," Adam said, shoving the form under his face. Sam signed
it, then jumped to his feet and started pacing again. "I really want you to
meet Donnie."

"Sure. Whatever you want," Adam said, stuffing his legal pad and the
forms into his briefcase. The nitpicking details were now complete. The
briefcase seemed much heavier.

"I'll be back in the morning," he said to Sam.

"Bring me some good news, okay."

COLONEL NUGENT strutted along the edge of the highway with a
dozen armed prison guards behind him. He glared at the Klansmen,
twenty-six at last count, and he scowled at the brown-shirted Nazis, ten
in all. He stopped and stared at the group of skinheads mingling next to
the Nazis. He swaggered around the edge of the grassy protest strip,
pausing for a moment to speak to two Catholic nuns sitting under a large
umbrella, as far away from the other demonstrators as possible. The
temperature was one hundred degrees, and the nuns were broiHng under

396 JOHN GRISHAM

the shade. They sipped ice water, their posters resting on their knees and
facing the highway.

The nuns asked him who he was and \vhat he wanted. He explained
that he was the acting warden for the prison, and that he w^as simply
making sure the demonstration was orderly.

They asked him to leave.

FORTY-THREE

PERHAPS IT WAS BECAUSE it was Sunday, or maybe it was the
rain, but Adam drank his morning coffee in unexpected serenity.
It was still dark outside, and the gentle dripping of a warm, sum-
mer shower on the patio was mesmerizing. He stood in the open door
and Hstened to the splashing of the raindrops. It was too early for traffic
on Riverside Drive below. There were no noises from the tugboats on
the river. All was quiet and peaceful.

And there wasn't a heckuva lot to be done this day. Day Three before
the execution. He would start at the office, where another last minute
petition had to be organized. The issue was so ridiculous Adam was
almost embarrassed to file it. Then he would drive to Parchman and sit
with Sam for a spell.

It was unlikely there would be movement by any court on Sunday. It
was certainly possible since the death clerks and their staffs were on call
when an execution was looming. But Friday and Saturday had passed
without rulings coming down, and he expected the same inactivity to-
day. Tomorrow would be much different, in his untrained and untested
opinion.

Tomorrow would be nothing but frenzy. And Tuesday, which of
course was scheduled to be Sam's last day as a breathing soul, would be a
nightmare of stress.

But this Sunday morning was remarkably calm. He had slept almost
seven hours, another recent record. His head was clear, his pulse normal,
his breathing relaxed. His mind was uncluttered and composed.

He flipped through the Sunday paper, scanning the headlines but

398 JOHN GRISHAM

reading nothing. There were at least two stories about the Cayhall exe-
cution, one with more pictures of the growing circus outside the prison
gate. The rain stopped when the sun came up, and he sat in a wet rocker
for an hour scanning Lee's architectural magazines. After a couple of
hours of peace and tranquility, Adam was bored and ready for action.

There was unfinished business in Lee's bedroom, a matter Adam had
tried to forget but couldn't. For ten days now^, a silent battle had raged in
his soul over the book in her drawer. She'd been drunk when she told
him about the lynching photo, but it was not the delirious talk of an
addict. Adam knew the book existed. There was a real book with a real
photo of a young black man hanging by a rope, and somewhere under
his feet was a crowd of proud white people, mugging for the camera,
immune from prosecution. Adam had mentally pieced the picture to-
gether, adding faces, sketching the tree, drawing the rope, adding titles
to the space under it. But there were some things he didn't know, he
couldn't visualize. Was the dead man's face perceptible? Was he wearing
shoes, or barefoot? Was a very young Sam easily recognizable? How
many "white faces were in the photo? And how old were they? Any
women? Any guns? Blood? Lee said he'd been bullwhipped. Was the
whip in the photo? He had imagined the picture for days now, and it
was time to finally look in the book. He couldn't wait until later. Lee
might make a triumphant return. She might move the book, hide it
again. He planned to spend the next two or three nights here, but that
could change with one phone call. He could be forced to rush to Jack-
son or sleep in his car at Parchman. Such routine matters as lunch and
dinner and sleeping were suddenly unpredictable when your client had
less than a week to Hve.

This was the perfect moment, and he decided that he was now ready
to face the lynch mob. He walked to the front door and scanned the
parking lot, just to make sure she hadn't decided to drop in. He actually
locked the door to her bedroom, and pulled open the top drawer. It was
filled with her lingerie, and he was embarrassed for this intrusion.

The book was in the third drawer, lying on top of a faded sweat-
shirt. It was thick and bound in green fabric — Southern Negroes and the
Great Depression. Published in 1947 by Toffler Press, Pittsburgh. Adam
clutched it and sat on the edge of her bed. The pages were immaculate
and pristine, as if the book had never been handled or read. Who in the
Deep South would read such a book anyway? And if the book had been
in the CayhaU family for several decades, then Adam was positive it had
never been read. He studied the binder and pondered what set of cir-
cumstances brought this particular book into the custody of the Sam
Cayhall family.

THE CHAMBER 399

The book had three sections of photos. The first was a series of
pictures of shotgun houses and ramshackle sheds where blacks were
forced to live on plantations. There were family portraits on front
porches with dozens of children, and there were the obligatory shots of
farm workers stooped low in the fields picking cotton.

The second section was in the center of the book, and ran for twenty
pages. There were actually two lynching photos, the first a horribly
gruesome scene with two robed and hooded Kluckers holding rifles and
posing for the camera. A badly beaten black man swung from a rope
behind them, his eyes half open, his face pulverized and bloody. KKK
lynching. Central Mississippi, 1939, explained the caption under it, as if
these rituals could be defined simply by locale and time.

Adam gaped at the horror of the picture, then turned the page to find
the second lynching scene, this one almost tame compared to the first.
The lifeless body at the end of the rope could be seen only from the
chest down. The shirt appeared to be torn, probably by the bullwhip, if
in fact one had been used. The black man was very thin, his oversized
pants drawn tightly at the waist. He was barefoot. No blood was visible.

The rope that held his body could be seen tied to a lower branch in
the background. The tree was large with bulky limbs and a massive
trunk.

A festive group had gathered just inches under his dangling feet. Men,
women, and boys clowned for the camera, some striking exaggerated
poses of anger and manliness — hard frowns, fierce eyes, tight lips, as if
they possessed unlimited power to protect their women from Negro
aggression; others smiled and seemed to be giggling, especially the
women, two of whom were quite pretty; a small boy held a pistol and
aimed it menacingly at the camera; a young man held a bottle of Hquor,
twisted just so to reveal the label. Most of the group seemed quite joyous
that this event had occurred. Adam counted seventeen people in the
group, and every single one was staring at the camera without shame or
worry, without the slightest hint a wrong had been committed. They
were utterly immune from prosecution. They had just killed another
human, and it was painfully obvious they had done so with no fear of the
consequences.

This was a party. It was at night, the weather was warm, liquor was
present, pretty women. Surely they'd brought food in baskets and were
about to throw quilts on the ground for a nice picnic around the tree.

Lynching in rural Mississippi, 1936, read the caption.

Sam was in the front row, crouched and resting on a knee between
two other young men, all three posing hard for the camera. He was
fifteen or sixteen, with a slender face that was trying desperately to

400 JOHN GRISHAM

appear dangerous — ^lip curled, eyebrows pinched, chin up. The cocky
braggadocio of a boy trying to emulate the more mature thugs around
him.

He was easy to spot because someone had drawn, in faded blue ink, a
line across the photo to the margin where the name Sam Cayhall was
printed in block letters. The line crossed the bodies and faces of others
and stopped at Sam's left ear. Eddie. It had to be Eddie. Lee said that
Eddie had found this book in the attic, and Adam could see his father
hiding in the darkness, weeping over the photograph, identifying Sam by
pointing the accusatory arrow at his head.

Lee also had said that Sam's father was the leader of this ragtag little
mob, but Adam couldn't distinguish him. Perhaps Eddie couldn't either
because there were no markings. There were at least seven men old
enough to be Sam's father. How many of these people were Cayhalls?
She'd also said that his brothers were involved, and perhaps one of the
younger men resembled Sam, but it was impossible to tell for certain.

He studied the clear, beautiful eyes of his grandfather, and his heart
ached. He was just a boy, born and reared in a household where hatred
of blacks and others was simply a way of life. How much of it could be
blamed on him? Look at those around him, his father, family, friends
and neighbors, all probably honest, poor, hardworking people caught for
the moment at the end of a cruel ceremony that was commonplace in
their society. Sam didn't have a chance. This was the only world he
knew.

How would Adam ever reconcile the past with the present? How
could he fairly judge these people and their horrible deed when, but for
a quirk of fate, he would' ve been right there in the middle of them had
he been born forty years earlier?

As he looked at their faces, an odd comfort engulfed him. Though
Sam was obviously a wilHng participant, he was only one member of the
mob, only partly guilty. Clearly, the older men v^th the stern faces had
instigated the lynching, and the rest had come along for the occasion.
Looking at the photo, it was inconceivable to think that Sam and his
younger buddies had initiated this brutaHty. Sam had done nothing to
stop it. But maybe he had done nothing to encourage it.

The scene produced a hundred unanswered questions. Who was the
photographer, and how did he happen to be there with his camera?
Who was the young black man? Where was his family, his mother?
How'd they catch him? Had he been in jail and released by the authori-
ties to the mob? What did they do with his body when it was over? Was
the alleged rape victim one of the young women smiling at the camera?
Was her father one of the men? Her brothers?

THE CHAMBER 401

If Sam was lynching at such an early age, what could be expected of
him as an adult? How often did these folks gather and celebrate Hke this
in rural Mississippi?

How in God's world could Sam CayhaU have become anything other
than himself? He never had a chance.

SAM WAITED PATIENTLY in the front office, sippmg coffee from a
different pot. It was strong and rich, unlike the watered-down brew they
served the inmates each morning. Packer had given it to him in a large
paper cup. Sam sat on the desk with his feet on a chair.

The door opened and Colonel Nugent marched inside with Packer
behind. The door was closed. Sam stiffened and snapped off a smart
salute.

"Good morning, Sam," Nugent said somberly. "How you doing?"

"Fabulous. You?"

"Getting by."

"Yeah, I know you gotta lot on your mind. This is tough on you,
trying to arrange my execution and making sure it goes real smooth.
Tough job. My hat's off to you."

Nugent ignored the sarcasm. "Need to talk to you about a few things.
Your lawyers now say you're crazy, and I just wanted to see for myself
how you're doing."

"I feel like a million bucks."

"WeU, you certainly look fme."

"Gee thanks. You look right spiffy yourself Nice boots."

The black combat boots were sparkling, as usual. Packer glanced
down at them and grinned.

"Yes," Nugent said, sitting in a chair and looking at a sheet of paper.
"The psychiatrist said you're uncooperative."

"Who? N.?"

"Dr. Stegall."

"That big lard-ass gal with an incomplete first name? I've only talked
to her once."

"Were you uncooperative?"

"I certainly hope so. I've been here for almost ten years, and she
finally trots her big ass over here when I've got one foot in the grave to
see how I'm getting along. All she wanted to do was give me some dope
so I'll be stoned when you clowns come after me. Makes your job easier,
doesn't it."

"She was only trying to help."

"Then God bless her. Tell her I'm sorry. It'll never happen again.
Write me up with an RVR. Put it in my file."

402 JOHN GRISHAM

"We need to talk about your last meal."

"Why is Packer in here?"

Nugent glanced at Packer, then looked at Sam. "Because it's proce-
dure."

"He's here to protect you, isn't he? You're afraid of me. You're scared
to be left alone with me in this room, aren't you, Nugent? I'm almost
seventy years old, feeble as hell, half dead from cigarettes, and you're
afraid of me, a convicted murderer."

"Not in the least."

"I'd stomp your ass all over this room, Nugent, if I wanted to."

"I'm terrified. Look, Sam, let's get down to business. What would
you like for your last meal?"

"This is Sunday. My last meal is scheduled for Tuesday night. Why are
you bothering me with it now?"

"We have to make plans. You can have anything, within reason."

"Who's gonna cook it?"

"It'll be prepared in the kitchen here."

"Oh, wonderful! By the same talented chefs who've been feeding me
hogslop for nine and a half years. What a way to go!"

"What would you Hke, Sam? I'm trying to be reasonable."

"How about toast and boiled carrots? I'd hate to burden them with
something new^."

"Fine, Sam. When you decide, tell Packer here and he'll notify the
kitchen."

"There won't be a last meal, Nugent. My lawyer will unload the
heavy artillery tomorrow. You clowns won't know what hit you."

"I hope you're right."

"You're a lying sonofabitch. You can't wait to walk me in there and
strap me down. You're giddy with the thought of asking me if I have any
last words, then nodding at one of your gophers to lock the door. And
when it's all over, you'll face the press with a sad face and announce that
'As of twelve-fifteen, this morning, August 8, Sam Cayhall was executed
in the gas chamber here at Parchman, pursuant to an order of the Circuit
Court of Lakehead County, Mississippi.' It'll be your finest hour, Nu-
gent. Don't lie to me."

The colonel never looked from the sheet of paper. "We need your Ust
of witnesses."

"See my lawyer."

"And we need to know what to do with your things."

"See my lawyer."

"Okay. We have numerous requests for interviews from the press."

"See my lawyer."

THE CHAMBER 403

Nugent jumped to his feet and stormed from the office. Packer caught
the door, waited a few seconds, then cahnly said, "Sit tight, Sam, there's
someone else to see you."

Sam smiled and winked at Packer. "Then get me some more coffee,
would you Packer?"

Packer took the cup, and returned with it a few minutes later. He also
handed Sam the Sunday paper from Jackson, and Sam was reading all
sorts of stories about his execution when the chaplain, Ralph Griffin,
knocked and entered.

Sam placed the paper on the desk and inspected the minister. Griffin
wore white sneakers, faded jeans, and a black shirt with a white clerical
collar. "Mornin', Reverend," Sam said, sipping his coffee.

"How are you, Sam?" Griffin asked as he pulled a chair very near the
desk and sat in it.

"Right now my heart's filled with hate," Sam said gravely.

"I'm sorry. Who's it directed at?"

"Colonel Nugent. But I'll get over it."

"Have you been praying, Sam?"

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"What's the hurry? I have today, tomorrow, and Tuesday. I figure you
and rU be doing lots of praying come Tuesday night."

"If you want. It's up to you. I'll be here."

"I want you to be with me up to the last moment, Reverend, if you
don't mind. You and my lawyer. Y'all are allowed to sit with me during
the last hours."

"I'd be honored."

"Thanks."

"What exactly do you want to pray about, Sam?"

Sam took a long drink of coffee. "Well, first of all, I'd like to know
that when I leave this world, aU the bad things I've done have been
forgiven."

"Your sins?"

"That's right."

"God expects us to confess our sins to him and ask for forgiveness."

"All of them? One at a time?"

"Yes, the ones we can remember."

"Then we'd better start now. It'll take a while."

"As you wish. What else would you like to pray for?"

"My family, such as it is. This will be hard on my grandson, and my
brother, and maybe my daughter. There won't be a lot of tears shed for
me, you understand, but I would like for them to be comforted. And I'd

404 JOHN GRISHAM

like to say a prayer for my friends here on the Row. They'll take it
hard."

"Anyone else?"

"Yeah. I want to say a good prayer for the Kramers, especially Ruth."

"The family of the victims?"

"That's right. And also the Lincolns."

"Who are the Lincolns?"

"It's a long story. More victims."

"This is good, Sam. You need to get this off your chest, to cleanse
your soul."

"It'll take years to cleanse my soul, Reverend."

"More victims?"

Sam sat the cup on the desk and gently rubbed his hands together. He
searched the warm and trusting eyes of Ralph Griffm. "What if there are
other victims?" he asked.

"Dead people?"

Sam nodded, very slowly.

"People you've killed?"

Sam kept nodding.

Griffm took a deep breath, and contemplated matters for a moment.
"WeU, Sam, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't want to die without
confessing these sins and asking God for forgiveness."

Sam kept nodding.

"How many?" Griffm asked.

Sam slid off the desk and eased into his shower shoes. He slowly lit a
cigarette, and began pacing back and forth behind Griffm's chair. The
reverend changed positions so he could watch and hear Sam.

"There was Joe Lincoln, but I've already written a letter to his family
and told them I was sorry."

"You kiUed him?"

"Yes. He was an African. Lived on our place. I always felt bad about it.
It was around 1950."

Sam stopped and leaned on a file cabinet. He spoke to the floor, as if
in a daze. "And there were two men, white men, who killed my father
at a funeral, many years ago. They served some time in jail, and when
they got out, me and my brothers waited patiently. We killed both of
them, but I never felt that bad about it, to be honest. They were scum,
and they'd killed our father."

"Killing is always wrong, Sam. You're fighting your own legal killing
right now."

"I know."

"Did you and your brothers get caught?"

THE CHAMBER 405

"No. The old sheriff suspected us, but he couldn't prove anything.
We were too careful. Besides, they were real lowlifes, and nobody
cared."

"That doesn't make it right."

"I know. I always figured they deserved what they got, then I was sent
to this place. Life has new meaning when you're on death row. You
realize how valuable it is. Now I'm sorry I killed those boys. Real
sorry."

"Anybody else?"

Sam walked the length of the room, counting each step, and returned
to the file cabinet. The minister waited. Time meant nothing right now.

"There were a couple of lynchings, years ago," Sam said, unable to
look Griffin in the eyes.

"Two?"

"I think. Maybe three. No, yes, there were three, but at the first one I
was just a kid, a small boy, and all I did was watch, you know, from the
bushes. It was Klan lynching, and my father was involved in it, and me
and my brother Albert sneaked into the woods and watched it. So that
doesn't count, does it?"

"No."

Sam's shoulders sank against the wall. He closed his eyes and lowered
his head. "The second one was a regular mob. I was about fifteen, I
guess, and I was right in the middle of it. A girl got raped by an African,
at least she said it was a rape. Her reputation left a lot to be desired, and
two years later she had a baby that was half-African. So who knows?
Anyway, she pointed the finger, we got the boy, took him out, and
lynched him. I was as guilty as the rest of the mob."

"God will forgive you, Sam."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

"How many murders wiU he forgive?"

"All of them. If you sincerely ask forgiveness, then he'll wipe the slate
clean. It's in the Scriptures."

"That's too good to be true."

"What about the other lynching?"

Sam began shaking his head, back and forth, eyes closed. "Now, I
can't talk about that one, preacher," he said, exhaling heavily.

"You don't have to talk to me about it, Sam. Just talk to God."

"I don't know if I can talk to anybody about it."

"Sure you can. Just close your eyes one night, between now and
Tuesday, while you're in your cell, and confess aU these deeds to God.
He'll instantly forgive you."

406 JOHN GRISHAM

"Just doesn't seem right, you know. You kill someone, then in a
matter of minutes God forgives you. Just like that. It's too easy."

"You must be truly sorry."

"Oh, I am. I swear."

"God forgets about it, Sam, but man does not. We answer to God, but
we also answer to the laws of man. God will forgive you, but you suffer
the consequences according to the dictates of the government."

"Screw the government. I'm ready to check outta here anyway."

"WeU, let's make sure you're ready, okay?"

Sam walked to the desk and sat on the corner next to Griffin. "You
stick close, okay. Reverend? I'U need some help. There's some bad
things buried in my soul. It might take some time to get them out."

"It won't be hard, Sam, if you're really ready."

Sam patted him on the knee. "Just stick close, okay?"

FORTY-FOUR

THE FRONT OFFICE was filled with blue smoke when Adam
entered. Sam was pufFmg away on the desk, reading about him-
self in the Sunday paper. Three empty coffee cups and several
candy wrappers littered the desk. "You've made yourself at home,
haven't you?" Adam said, noticing the debris.

"Yeah, I've been here all day."

"Lots of guests?"

"I wouldn't call them guests. The day started with Nugent, so that
pretty well ruined things. The minister stopped by to see if I've been
praying. I think he was depressed when he left. Then the doctor came by
to make sure I'm fit enough to kill. Then my brother Donnie stopped by
for a short visit. I really want you to meet him. Tell me you've brought
some good news."

Adam shook his head and sat down. "No. Nothing's changed since
yesterday. The courts have taken the weekend off."

"Do they realize Saturdays and Sundays count? That the clock doesn't
stop ticking for me on the weekends?"

"It could be good news. They could be considering my brilliant
appeals."

"Maybe, but I suspect the honorable brethren are more likely at their
lake homes drinking beer and cooking ribs. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, you're probably right. What's in the paper?"

"Same old rehash of me and my brutal crime, pictures of those people
out front demonstrating, comments from McAlHster. Nothing new. I've
never seen such excitement."

408 JOHN GRISHAM

"You're the man of the hour, Sam. Wendall Sherman and his pub-
Hsher are now at a hundred and fifty thousand, but the deadhne is six
o'clock tonight. He's in Memphis, sitting with his tape recorders, just
itching to get down here. He says he'll need at least two full days to
record your story."

"Great. What exactly am I supposed to do with the money?"

"Leave it to your precious grandchildren."

"Are you serious? WiU you spend it? I'll do it if you'll spend it."

"No. I'm just kidding. I don't want the money, and Carmen doesn't
need it. I couldn't spend it with a clear conscience."

"Good. Because the last thing I wanna do between now and Tuesday
night is to sit with a stranger and talk about the past. I don't care how
much money he has. I'd rather not have a book written about my Ufe."

"I've already told him to forget it."

"Atta boy." Sam eased to his feet and began walking back and forth
across the room. Adam took his place on the edge of the desk and read
the sports section of the Memphis paper.

"I'll be glad when it's over, Adam," Sam said, still walking, talking
v^ith his hands. "I can't stand this waiting. I s"wear I w^ish it was tonight."
He was suddenly nervous and irritable, his voice louder.

Adam placed the paper to his side. "We're gonna win, Sam. Trust
me."

"Win what!" he snapped angrily. "Win a reprieve? Big deal! What do
■we gain from that? Six months? A year? You know what that means? It
means we'll get to do this again someday. I'll go through the whole
damned ritual again — counting days, losing sleep, plotting last minute
strategies, listening to Nugent or some other fool, talking to the shrink,
whispering to the chaplain, being patted on the ass and led up here to
this cubbyhole because I'm special." He stopped in front of Adam and
glared doAvn at him. His face was angry, his eyes wet and bitter. "I'm
sick of this, Adam! Listen to me! This is worse than dying."

"We can't quit, Sam."

"We? Who the hell is we? It's my neck on the line, not yours. If I get
a stay, then you'll go back to your fancy office in Chicago and get on
with your Ufe. You'll be the hero because you saved your client. You'll
get your picture in Lawyer's Quarterly, or w^hatever you guys read. The
bright young star who kicked ass in Mississippi. Saved his grandfather, a
^vretched Klucker, by the way. Your cHent, on the other hand, is led
back to his Httle cage where he starts counting days again." Sam threw
his cigarette on the floor and grabbed Adam by the shoulders. "Look at
me, son. I can't go through this again. I want you to stop everything.

THE CHAMBER 409

Drop it. Call the courts and tell them we're dismissing all the petitions
and appeals. I'm an old man. Please allow me to die with dignity."

His hands were shaking. His breathing was labored. Adam searched his
brilliant blue eyes, surrounded with layers of dark wrinkles, and saw a
stray tear ease out of one corner and fall slowly down his cheek until it
vanished in the gray beard.

For the first time, Adam could smell his grandfather. The strong nico-
tine aroma mixed with an odor of dried perspiration to form a scent that
was not pleasant. It was not repulsive, though, the way it would have
been if radiated by a person with access to plenty of soap and hot water,
air conditioning, and deodorant. After the second breath, it didn't
bother Adam at all.

"I don't want you to die, Sam."

Sam squeezed his shoulders harder. "Why not?" he demanded.

"Because I've just found you. You're my grandfather."

Sam stared for a second longer, then relaxed. He released Adam and
took a step backward. "I'm sorry you found me like this," he said,
wiping his eyes.

"Don't apologize."

"But I have to. I'm sorry I'm not a better grandfather. Look at me,"
he said, glancing down at his legs. "A wretched old man in a red monkey
suit. A convicted murderer about to be gassed like an animal. And look
at you. A fine young man with a beautiful education and a bright future.
Where in the world did I go wrong? What happened to me? I've spent
my life hating people, and look what I have to show for it. You, you
don't hate anybody. And look where you're headed. We have the same
blood. Why am I here?"

Sam slowly sat in a chair, put his elbows on his knees, and covered his
eyes. Neither moved or spoke for a long time. The occasional voice of a
guard could be heard in the hall, but the room was quiet.

"You know, Adam, I'd rather not die in such an awful way," Sam said
hoarsely with his fists resting on his temples, still looking blankly at the
floor. "But death itself doesn't worry me now. I've known for a long
time that I would die here, and my biggest fear was dying without
knowing anyone would care. That's an awful thought, you know. Dying
and nobody cares. There's nobody to cry and grieve, to mourn properly
at the funeral and burial. I've had dreams where I saw my body in a
cheap wooden casket lying in the funeral home in Clanton, and not a
soul was in the room with me. Not even Donnie. In the same dream, the
preacher chuckled through the funeral service because it was just the two
of us, all alone in the chapel, rows and rows of empty pews. But that's
different now. I know somebody cares about me. I know you'll be sad

410 JOHN GRISHAM

when I die because you care, and I know you'll be there when I'm
buried to make sure it's done properly. I'm really ready to go now,
Adam. I'm ready."

"Fine, Sam, I respect that. And I promise I'll be here to the bitter end,
and I'll grieve and mourn, and after it's over I'll make sure you're buried
properly. No one's gonna screw around with you, Sam, as long as I'm
here. But, please, look at it through my eyes. I have to give it my best
shot, because I'm young and I have the rest of my life. Don't make me
leave here knowing I could' ve done more. It's not fair to me."

Sam folded his arms across his chest and looked at Adam. His pale face
was calm, his eyes still wet. "Let's do it this way," he said, his voice stiU
low and pained. "I'm ready to go. I'U spend tomorrow and Tuesday
making final preparations. I'U assume it's gonna happen at midnight
Tuesday, and I'U be ready for it. You, on the other hand, play it Uke a
game. If you can win it, good for you. If you lose it, I'U be ready to face
the music."

"So you'U cooperate?"

"No. No clemency hearing. No more petitions or appeals. You have
enough junk floating around out there to keep you busy. Two issues are
StiU alive. I'm not signing any more petitions."

Sam stood, his decrepit knees popping and wobbHng. He walked to
the door and leaned on it. "What about Lee?" he asked softly, reaching
for his cigarettes.

"She's StiU in rehab," Adam lied. He was tempted to blurt out the
truth. It seemed childish to be lying to Sam in these decHning hours of
his life, but Adam stiU held a strong hope that she would be found before
Tuesday. "Do you want to see her?"

"I think so. Can she get out?"

"It may be difficult, but I'U try. She's sicker than I first thought."

"She's an alcoholic?"

"Yes."

"Is that aU? No drugs?"

"Just alcohol. She told me she's had a problem for many years. Rehab
is nothing new."

"Bless her heart. My children didn't have a chance."

"She's a fine person. She's had a rough time with her marriage. Her
son left home at an early age and never returned."

"Walt, right?"

"Right," Adam answered. What a heartbroken bunch of people. Sam
was not even certain of the name of his grandson.

"How old is he?"

"I'm not sure. Probably close to my age."

THE CHAMBER 411

"Does he even know about me?"

"I don't know. He's been gone for many years. Lives in Amsterdam."

Sam picked up a cup from the desk and took a drink of cold coffee.
"What about Carmen?" he asked.

Adam instinctively glanced at his watch. "I pick her up at the Mem-
phis airport in three hours. She'll be here in the morning."

"That just scares the heU outta me."

"Relax, Sam. She's a great person. She's smart, ambitious, pretty, and
I've told her all about you."

"Why'd you do that?"

"Because she wants to know."

"Poor child. Did you tell her what I look like?"

"Don't worry about it, Sam. She doesn't care what you look like."

"Did you teU her I'm not some savage monster?"

"I told her you were a sweetheart, a real dear, sort of a delicate little
fella with an earring, ponytail, limp wrist, and these cute little rubber
shower shoes that you sort of glide in."

"You kiss my ass!"

"And that you seemed to be a real favorite of the boys here in
prison."

"You're lying! You didn't teU her aU that!" Sam was grinning, but half
serious, and his concern was amusing. Adam laughed, a bit too long and
a bit too loud, but the humor was welcome. They both chuckled and
tried their best to seem thoroughly amused by their own wit. They tried
to stretch it out, but soon the levity passed and gravity sank in. Soon
they were sitting on the edge of the desk, side by side, feet on separate
chairs, staring at the floor while heavy clouds of tobacco smoke boiled
above them in the motionless air.

There was so much to talk about, yet there was little to say. The legal
theories and maneuverings had been beaten to death. Family was a sub-
ject they'd covered as much as they'd dared. The weather was good for
no more than five minutes of conjecture. And both men knew they
would spend much of the next two and a half days together. Serious
matters could wait. Unpleasant subjects could be shoved back just a bit
longer. Twice Adam glanced at his watch and said he'd best be going,
and both times Sam insisted he stay. Because when Adam left, they
would come for him and take him back to his cell, his little cage where
the temperature was over a hundred. Please stay, he begged.

LATE THAT NIGHT, well after midnight, long after Adam had told
Carmen about Lee and her problems, and about Phelps and Walt, about
McAllister and Wyn Lettner, and the theory of the accomplice, hours

412 JOHN GRISHAM

after they'd finished a pizza and discussed their mother and father and
grandfather and the whole pathetic bunch, Adam said the one moment
he'd never forget was the two of them sitting there on the desk, passing
time in silence as an invisible clock ticked away, with Sam patting him
on the knee. It was like he had to touch me in some affectionate way, he
explained to her, like a good grandfather would touch a small loved one.

Carmen had heard enough for one night. She'd been on the patio for
four hours, suffering through the humidity and absorbing the desolate
oral history of her father's family.

But Adam had been very careful. He'd hit the peaks and skipped the
woeful valleys — no mention of Joe Lincoln or lynchings or sketchy hints
of other crimes. He portrayed Sam as a violent man who made terrible
mistakes and was now burdened with remorse. He had toyed with the
idea of showing her his video of Sam's trials, but decided against it. He
would do it later. She could handle only so much in one night. At times,
he couldn't believe the things he'd heard in the past four weeks. It would
be cruel to hit her with all of it in one sitting. He loved his sister dearly.
They had years to discuss the rest of the story.

FORTY-FIVE

MONDAY, AUGUST 6, 6 a.m. Forty-two hours to go. Adam
entered his office and locked the door.
He waited until seven, then called Slattery's office in Jack-
son. There was no answer, of course, but he was hoping for a recorded
message that might direct him to another number that might lead to
someone down there who could tell him something. Slattery was sitting
on the mental claim; just ignoring it as if it was simply another little
lawsuit.

He called information and received the home number for F. Flynn
Slattery, but decided not to bother him. He could wait until nine.

Adam had slept less than three hours. His pulse was pounding, his
adrenaline was pumping. His cUent was now down to the last forty-two
hours, and dammit, Slattery should quickly rule one way or the other. It
wasn't fair to sit on the damned petition when he could be racing off to
other courts with it.

The phone rang and he lunged for it. The Death Clerk from the Fifth
Circuit informed him that the court was denying the appeal of Sam's
claim of ineffective assistance of counsel. It was the opinion of the court
that the claim was procedurally barred. It should've been filed years ago.
The court did not get to the merits of the issue.

"Then why'd the court sit on it for a week?" Adam demanded.
"They could've reached this nitpicking decision ten days ago."

"I'll fax you a copy right now," the clerk said.

"Thanks. I'm sorry, okay."

"Keep in touch, Mr. Hall. We'll be right here waiting on you."

414 JOHN GRISHAM

Adam hung up, and went to find coffee. Darlene arrived, tired, hag-
gard, and early, at seven-thirty. She brought the fax from the Fifth
Circuit, along with a raisin bagel. Adam asked her to fax to the U.S.
Supreme Court the petition for cert on the ineffectiveness claim. It had
been prepared for three days, and Mr. Olander in Washington had told
Darlene that the Court was already reviewing it.

Darlene then brought two aspirin and a glass of water. His head was
splitting as he packed most of the Cayhall file into a large briefcase and a
cardboard box. He gave Darlene a list of instructions.

Then he left the office, the Memphis branch of Kravitz & Bane, never
to return.

COLONEL NUGENT waited impatiently for the tier door to open,
then rushed into the hallway with eight members of his select execution
team behind him. They swarmed into the quietness of Tier A with all
the finesse of a Gestapo squad — eight large men, half in uniform, half
plainclothed, following a strutting little rooster. He stopped at cell six,
where Sam was lying on his bed, minding his own business. The other
inmates were instantly watching and listening, their arms hanging
through the bars.

"Sam, it's time to go to the Observation Cell," Nugent said as if he
was truly bothered by this. His men Hned the wall behind him, under
the row of windows.

Sam slowly eased himself from the bed, and walked to the bars. He
glared at Nugent, and asked, "Why?"

"Because I said so."

"But why move me eight doors down the tier? What purpose does it

serve

"It's procedure, Sam. It's in the book."

"So you don't have a good reason, do you?"

"I don't need one. Turn around."

Sam walked to his sink and brushed his teeth for a long time. Then he
stood over his toilet and urinated with his hands on his hips. Then he
w^ashed his hands, as Nugent and his boys watched and fumed. Then
he lit a cigarette, stuck it between his teeth, and eased his hands behind
his back and through the narrow opening in the door. Nugent slapped
the cuffs on his wrists, and nodded at the end of the tier for the door to
be opened. Sam stepped onto the tier. He nodded at J. B. Gullitt, who
was watching in horror and ready to cry. He winked at Hank Henshaw.

Nugent took his arm and walked him to the end of the hall, past
Gullitt and Loyd Eaton and Stock Turner and Harry Ross Scott and
Buddy Lee Harris, and, finally, past Preacher Boy, who at the moment

THE CHAMBER 415

was lying on his bed, face down, crying. The tier ran to a wall of iron
bars, identical to those on the front of the cells, and the wall had a heavy
door in the center of it. On the other side was another group of Nu-
gent's goons, all watching quietly and loving every moment of it. Behind
them was a short, narrow hallway which led to the Isolation Room. And
then to the chamber.

Sam was being moved forty-eight feet closer to death. He leaned
against the wall, puffmg, watching in stoic silence. This was nothing
personal, just part of the routine.

Nugent walked back to ceU six and barked orders. Four of the guards
entered Sam's cell and began grabbing his possessions. Books, type-
writer, fan, television, toiletries, clothing. They held the items as if they
were contaminated and carried them to the Observation Cell. The mat-
tress and bedding were rolled up and moved by a burly plainclothed
guard who accidentally stepped on a dragging sheet and ripped it.

The inmates watched this sudden flurry of activity with a saddened
curiosity. Their cramped little cells were like additional layers of skin,
and to see one so unmercifully violated was painful. It could happen to
them. The reality of an execution was crashing in; they could hear it in
the heavy boots shuffling along the tier, and in the stern muted voices of
the death team. The distant slamming of a door would' ve barely been
noticed a week ago. Now, it was a jolting shock that rattled the nerves.

The officers trooped back and forth with Sam's assets until ceU six was
bare. It was quick work. They arranged things in his new home without
the slightest care.

None of the eight worked on the Row. Nugent had read somewhere
in Naifeh's haphazard notes that the members of the execution team
should be total strangers to the inmate. They should be pulled from the
other camps. Thirty-one officers and guards had volunteered for this
duty. Nugent had chosen only the best.

"Is everything in?" he snapped at one of his men.

"Yes sir."

"Very well. It's all yours, Sam."

"Oh thank you, sir," Sam sneered as he entered the cell. Nugent
nodded to the far end of the hall, and the door closed. He walked
forward and grabbed the bars with both hands. "Now, listen, Sam," he
said gravely. Sam was leaning with his back to the wall, looking away
from Nugent. "We'll be right here if you need anything, okay. We
moved you down here to the end so we can watch you better. All right?
Is there anything I can do for you?"

Sam continued to look away, thoroughly ignoring him.

"Very well." He backed away, and looked at his men. "Let's go," he

416 JOHN GRISHAM

said to them. The tier door opened less than ten feet from Sam, and the
death team filed out. Sam waited. Nugent glanced up and down the hall,
then stepped from the tier.

"Hey, Nugent!" Sam suddenly yelled. "How 'bout taking these hand-
cuffs off!"

Nugent froze and the death team stopped.

"You dumbass!" Sam yeUed again, as Nugent scurried backward, fum-
bling for keys, barking orders. Laughter erupted along the tier, loud
horselaughs and guffaws and boisterous catcalls. "You can't leave me
handcuffed!" Sam screamed into the hallway.

Nugent "was at Sam's door, gritting his teeth, cursing, fmally getting
the right key. "Turn around," he demanded.

"You ignorant sonofabitch!" Sam yelled through the bars directly into
the colonel's red face, which was less than tw^o feet away. The laughter
roared even louder.

"And you're in charge of my execution!" Sam said angrily, and rather
loudly for the benefit of others. "You'll probably gas yourself!"

"Don't bet on it," Nugent said tersely. "Now turn around."

Someone, either Hank Henshaw or Harry Ross Scott, yelled out,
"Barney Fife!" and instantly the chant reverberated along the tier:

"Barney Fife! Barney Fife! Barney Fife!"

"Shut up!" Nugent yelled back.

"Barney Fife! Barney Fife!"

"Shut up!"

Sam finally turned around and stuck out his hands so Nugent could
reach them. The cuffs came off, and the colonel quick-stepped it
through the tier door.

"Barney Fife! Barney Fife! Barney Fife!" they chanted in perfect uni-
son until the door clanged shut and the hallway was empty again. Their
voices died suddenly, the laughter was gone. Slowly, their arms disap-
peared from the bars.

Sam stood facing the haU and glared at the two guards who were
watching him from the other side of the tier door. He spent a few
minutes organizing the place — plugging in the fan and television, stack-
ing his books neatly as if they would be used, checking to see if the toilet
flushed and the water ran. He sat on the bed and inspected the torn
sheet.

This was his fourth cell on the Row, and undoubtedly the one he
would occupy for the briefest period of time. He reminisced about the
first two, especially the second, on Tier B, where his close friend Buster
Moac had lived next door. One day they came for Buster and brought
him here, to the Observation Cell, where they watched him around the

THE CHAMBER 417

clock SO he wouldn't commit suicide. Sam had cried when they took
Buster away.

Virtually every inmate who made it this far also made it to the next
stop. And then to the last.

GARNER GOODMAN was the first guest of the day in the splendid
foyer of the governor's office. He actually signed the guestbook, chatted
amiably with the pretty receptionist, and just wanted the governor to
know that he was available. She was about to say something else when
the phone buzzed on her switchboard. She punched a button, grimaced,
listened, frowned at Goodman who looked away, then thanked the
caller. "These people," she sighed.

"Beg your pardon," Goodman offered, ever the innocent.

"We've been swamped with calls about your client's execution."

"Yes, it's a very emotional case. Seems as if most people down here are
in favor of the death penalty."

"Not this one," she said, recording the call on a pink form. "Almost
all of these calls are opposed to his execution."

"You don't say. What a surprise."

"I'll inform Ms. Stark you're here."

"Thank you." Goodman took his familiar seat in the foyer. He
glanced through the morning papers again. On Saturday, the daily paper
in Tupelo made the mistake of beginning a telephone survey to gauge
public opinion on the Cayhall execution. A toll-free number was given
on the front page with instructions, and, of course, Goodman and his
team of market analysts had bombarded the number over the weekend.
The Monday edition ran the results for the first time, and they were
astounding. Of three hundred and twenty calls, three hundred and two
were opposed to the execution. Goodman smiled to himself as he
scanned the paper.

Not too far away, the governor was sitting at the long table in his
office and scanning the same papers. His face was troubled. His eyes
were sad and worried.

Mona Stark walked across the marbled floor with a cup of coffee.
"Garner Goodman's here. Waiting in the foyer."

"Let him wait."

"The hotline's already flooded."

McAllister calmly looked at his watch. Eleven minutes before nine.
He scratched his chin with his knuckles. From 3 p.m. Saturday until 8
P.M. Sunday, his pollster had called over two hundred Mississippians.
Seventy-eight percent favored the death penalty, which was not surpris-
ing. However, of the same sample polled, fifty-one percent believed Sam

418 JOHN GRISHAM

Cayhall should not be executed. Their reasons varied. Many felt he was
simply too old to face it. His crime had been committed twenty-three
years ago, in a generation diflferent from today's. He would die in
Parchman soon enough anyway, so leave him alone. He was being perse-
cuted for political reasons. Plus, he was white, and McAllister and his
pollsters knew that factor was very important, if unspoken.

That was the good news. The bad new^s was contained in a printout
next to the newspapers. Working with only one operator, the hotline
received two hundred and thirty-one calls on Saturday, and one hundred
and eighty on Sunday. A total of four hundred and eleven. Over ninety-
five percent opposed the execution. Since Friday morning, the hotline
had officially recorded eight hundred and ninety-seven calls about old
Sam, with a strong ninety percent plus opposed to his execution. And
now^ the hotline ■was hopping again.

There was more. The regional offices were reporting an avalanche of
calls, almost all opposed to Sam dying. Staff members were coming to
work with stories of long weekends with the phones. Roxburgh had
called to say his lines had been flooded.

The governor was already tired. "There's something at ten this morn-
ing," he said to Mona without looking at her.

"Yes, a meeting with a group of Boy Scouts."

"Cancel it. Give my apologies. Reschedule it. I'm not in the mood
for any photographs this morning. It's best if I stay here. Lunch?"

"With Senator Pressgrove. You're supposed to discuss the lawsuit
against the universities."

"I can't stand Pressgrove. Cancel it, and order some chicken. And, on
second thought, bring in Goodman."

She walked to the door, disappeared for a minute, and returned with
Garner Goodman. McAllister was standing by the window, staring at the
buildings downtown. He turned and flashed a weary smile. "Good
morning, Mr. Goodman."

They shook hands and took seats. Late Sunday afternoon, Goodman
had dehvered to Larramore a written request to cancel the clemency
hearing, pursuant to their client's rather strident demands.

"Still don't want a hearing, huh?" the governor said with another
tired smile.

"Our cHent says no. He has nothing else to add. We've tried every-
thing." Mona handed Goodman a cup of black coffee.

"He has a very hard head. Always has, I guess. Where are the appeals
right now?" McAllister was so sincere.

"Proceeding as expected."

THE CHAMBER 419

"You've been through this before, Mr. Goodman. I haven't. What's
your prediction, as of right now?"

Goodman stirred his coffee and pondered the question. There was no
harm in being honest with the governor, not at this point. "I'm one of
his lawyers, so I lean toward optimism. I'd say seventy percent chance of
it happening."

The governor thought about this for a while. He could almost hear
the phones ringing off the walls. Even his own people were getting
skittish. "Do you know what I want, Mr. Goodman?" he asked sin-
cerely.

Yeah, you want those damned phones to stop ringing, Goodman
thought to himself "What?"

"I'd really like to talk to Adam Hall. Where is he?"

"Probably at Parchman. I talked to him an hour ago."

"Can he come here today?"

"Yes, in fact he was planning on arriving in Jackson this afternoon."

"Good. I'll wait for him."

Goodman suppressed a smile. Perhaps a small hole had ruptured in the
dam.

Oddly, though, it was on a different, far more unlikely front where
the first hint of relief surfaced.

SIX BLOCKS AWAY in the federal courthouse, Breck Jefferson entered
the office of his boss, the Honorable F. Flynn Slattery, who was on the
phone and rather perturbed at a lawyer. Breck held a thick petition for
writ of habeas corpus, and a legal pad filled with notes.

"Yes?" Slattery barked, slamming down the phone.

"We need to talk about Cayhall," Breck said somberly. "You know
we've got his petition alleging mental incompetence."

"Let's deny it and get it outta here. I'm too busy to worry with it. Let
Cayhall take it to the Fifth Circuit. I don't want that damned thing lying
around here."

Breck looked troubled, and his words came slower. "But there's
something you need to take a look at."

"Aw, come on, Breck. What is it?"

"He may have a valid claim."

Slattery's face fell and his shoulders slumped. "Come on. Are you
kidding? What is it? We have a trial starting in thirty minutes. There's a
jury waiting out there."

Breck Jefferson had been the number-two student in his law class at
Emory. Slattery trusted him implicitly. "They're claiming Sam lacks the

420 JOHN GRISHAM

mental competence to face an execution, pursuant to a rather broad
Mississippi statute."

"Everybody knows he's crazy."

"They have an expert who's willing to testify. It's not something w^e
can ignore."

"I don't beHeve this."

"You'd better look at it."

His Honor massaged his forehead with his fingertips. "Sit down. Let
me see it."

"JUST A FEW MOKE MILES," Adam said as they sped toward the
prison. "How you doing?"

Carmen had said Uttle since they left Memphis. Her first journey into
Mississippi had been spent looking at the vastness of the Delta, admiring
the lushness of its miles of cotton and beans, watching in amazement as
crop dusters bounced along the tops of the fields, shaking her head at the
clusters of impoverished shacks. "I'm nervous," she admitted, not for
the first time. They had talked briefly about Berkeley and Chicago and
what the next years might bring. They had said nothing about their
mother or father. Sam and his family w^ere likewise neglected.

"He's nervous too."

"This is bizarre, Adam. Rushing along this highway in this wilder-
ness, hurrying to meet a grandfather who's about to be executed."

He patted her firmly on the knee. "You're doing the right thing."
She wore oversized chinos, hiking boots, a faded red denim shirt. Very
much the grad student in psychology.

"There it is." He suddenly pointed ahead. On both sides of the high-
w^ay, cars had parked bumper to bumper. Traffic was slow as people
walked toward the prison.

"What's all this?" she asked,
ihis IS a circus.

They passed three Klansmen walking on the edge of the pavement.
Carmen stared at them, then shook her head in disbelief. They inched
forward, going sHghtly faster than the people hurrying to the demonstra-
tions. In the middle of the highway in front of the entrance, two state
troopers directed traffic. They motioned for Adam to turn right, which
he did. A Parchman guard pointed to an area along a shallow road ditch.

They held hands and walked to the front gate, pausing for a moment
to stare at the dozens of robed Klansmen miUing about in front of the
prison. A fiery speech was being delivered into a megaphone that mal-
functioned every few seconds. A group of brownshirts stood shoulder to
shoulder, holding signs and facing the traffic. No less than five television

THE CHAMBER 421

vans were parked on the other side of the highway. Cameras were every-
where. A news heHcopter circled above.

At the front gate, Adam introduced Carmen to his new pal Louise,
the guard who took care of the paperwork. She was nervous and fraz-
zled. There'd been an altercation or two between the Kluckers and the
press and the guards. Things were dicey at the moment, and not hkely to
improve, in her opinion.

A uniformed guard escorted them to a prison van, and they hurriedly
left the front entrance.

"Unbelievable," Carmen said.

"It gets worse each day. Wait till tomorrow."

The van slowed as they eased along the main drive, under the large
shade trees and in front of the neat, white houses. Carmen watched
everything.

"This doesn't look like a prison," she said.

"It's a farm. Seventeen thousand acres. Prison employees live in those
houses."

"With children," she said, looking at bicycles and scooters lying in the
front yards. "It's so peaceful. Where are the prisoners?"

"Just wait."

The van turned to the left. The pavement stopped and the dirt road
began. Just ahead was the Row.

"See the towers there?" Adam pointed. "The fences and the razor
wire?" She nodded.

"That's the Maximum Security Unit. Sam's home for the past nine
and a half years."

"Where's the gas chamber?"

"In there."

Two guards looked inside the van, then waved it through the double
gates. It stopped near the front door where Packer was waiting. Adam
introduced him to Carmen, who by now was barely able to speak. They
stepped inside, where Packer frisked them gently. Three other guards
watched. "Sam's already in there," Packer said nodding to the front
office. "Go on in."

Adam took her hand and clenched it tightly. She nodded and they
walked to the door. He opened it.

Sam was sitting on the edge of the desk, as usual. His feet were
swinging under him and he was not smoking. The air in the room was
clear and cool. He glanced at Adam, then looked at Carmen. Packer
closed the door behind them.

She released Adam's hand and walked to the desk, looking Sam
squarely in the eyes. "I'm Carmen," she said softly. Sam eased from the

422 JOHN GRISHAM

desk. "I'm Sam, Carmen. Your wayward grandfather." He drew her to
him and they embraced.

It took a second or two for Adam to realize Sam had shaved his beard.
His hair was shorter and looked much neater. His jumpsuit was zipped
to the neck.

Sam squeezed her shoulders and examined her face. "You're as pretty
as your mother," he said hoarsely. His eyes were moist and Carmen was
fighting back tears.

She bit her lip and tried to smile.

"Thanks for coming," he said, trying to grin. "I'm sorry you had to
find me like this."

"You look great," she said.

"Don't start lying. Carmen," Adam said, breaking the ice. "And let's
stop the crying before it gets outta hand."

"Sit down," Sam said to her, pointing to a chair. He sat next to her,
holding her hand.

"Business first, Sam," Adam said as he leaned on the desk. "Fifth
Circuit turned us down early this morning. So we're off to greener
pastures."

"Your brother here is quite a lawyer," Sam said to Carmen. "He gives
me this same news every day."

"Of course, I don't have much to work with," Adam said.

"How's your mother?" Sam asked her.

"She's fine."

"Tell her I asked about her. I remember her as a fine person."

"I wiU."

"Any word on Lee?" Sam asked him.

"No. Do you want to see her?"

"I think so. But if she can't make it, I'll understand."

"I'll see what I can do," Adam said confidently. His last two phone
calls to Phelps had not been returned. Frankly, he didn't have time at the
moment to look for Lee.

Sam leaned closer to her. "Adam tells me you're studying psychol-
ogy-"

"That's right. I'm in grad school at Cal Berkeley. I'll — "

A sharp knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Adam
opened it slightly, and saw the anxious face of Lucas Mann. "Excuse me
for a minute," he said to Sam and Carmen, and stepped into the hall.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Garner Goodman's looking for you," Mann said, almost in a
whisper. "He wants you in Jackson immediately."

"Why? What's going on?"

THE CHAMBER 423

"Looks like one of your claims has found its mark."

Adam's heart stopped. "Which one?"

"Judge Slattery wants to talk about the mental incompetence. He's
scheduled a hearing for five this afternoon. Don't say anything to me,
because I might be a witness for the state."

Adam closed his eyes and gently tapped his head against the wall. A
thousand thoughts swirled wildly through his brain. "Five this afternoon.
Slattery?"

"Hard to believe. Look, you need to move fast."

"I need a phone."

"There's one in there," Mann said, nodding to the door behind
Adam. "Look, Adam, it's none of my business, but I wouldn't tell Sam.
This is still a long shot, and there's no sense getting his hopes up. If it was
my decision, I'd wait until the hearing is over."

"You're right. Thanks, Lucas."

"Sure. I'll see you in Jackson."

Adam returned to the room, where the discussion had drifted to life
in the Bay Area. "It's nothing," Adam said with a frown and went
casually to the phone. He ignored their quiet talk as he punched the
numbers.

"Garner, it's Adam. I'm here with Sam. What's up?"

"Get your ass down here, old boy," Goodman said calmly. "Things
are moving."

"I'm Hstening." Sam was describing his first and only trip to San
Francisco, decades ago.

"First, the governor wants to talk privately with you. He seems to be
suffering. We're wearing his ass out with the phones, and he's feeling the
heat. More importantly, Slattery, of all people, is hung up on the mental
claim. I talked with him thirty minutes ago, and he's just thoroughly
confused. I didn't help matters. He wants a hearing at five this after-
noon. I've already talked to Dr. Swinn, and he's on standby. He'll land
in Jackson at three-thirty and be ready to testify."

"I'm on my way," Adam said with his back to Sam and Carmen.

"Meet me at the governor's office."

Adam hung up. "Just getting the appeals filed," he explained to Sam,
who at the moment was totally indifferent. "I need to get to Jackson."

"What's the hurry?" Sam asked, like a man with years to live and
nothing to do.

"Hurry? Did you say hurry? It's ten o'clock, Sam, on Monday. We
have exactly thirty-eight hours to find a miracle."

"There won't be any miracles, Adam." He turned to Carmen, still
holding her hand. "Don't get your hopes up, dear."

424 JOHN GRISHAM

"Maybe—"

"No. It's my time, okay. And I'mi very ready. I don't want you to be
sad ^vhen it's over."

"We need to go, Sam," Adam said, touching his shoulder. "I'll be
back either late tonight or early in the morning."

Carmen leaned over and kissed Sam on the cheek. "My heart is with
you, Sam," she whispered.

He hugged her for a second, then stood by the desk. "You take care,
kid. Study hard and aU that. And don't think badly of me, okay? I'm here
for a reason. It's nobody's fault but mine. There's a better Hfe waiting on
me outside this place."

Carmen stood and hugged him again. She was crying as they left the
room.

FORTY-SIX

BY NOON, Judge Slattery had fully embraced the gravity of the
moment, and though he tried hard to conceal it, he was enjoying
immensely this brief interval in the center of the storm. First, he
had dismissed the jury and lawyers in the civil trial pending before him.
He had twice talked to the clerk of the Fifth Circuit in New Orleans,
then to Justice McNeely himself The big moment had come a few
minutes after eleven when Supreme Court Justice Edward F. AUbright
called from Washington to get an update. AUbright was monitoring the
case by the hour. They talked law and theory. Neither man was opposed
to the death penalty, and both had particular problems with the Missis-
sippi statute in question. They were concerned that it could be abused by
any death row inmate who could pretend to be insane and fmd a wacky
doctor to play along.

The reporters quickly learned that a hearing of some type was sched-
uled, and they not only flooded Slattery's office with calls, but parked
themselves in his receptionist's office. The U.S. marshall was called to
disperse the reporters.

The secretary brought messages by the minute. Breck Jefferson dug
through countless law books and scattered research over the long confer-
ence table. Slattery talked to the governor, the Attorney General, Garner
Goodman, dozens of others. His shoes were under his massive desk. He
walked around it, holding the receiver with a long cord, thoroughly
enjoying the madness.

426 JOHN GRISHAM

IF SLATTERY'S OFFICE was hectic, then the Attorney General's was
pure chaos. Roxburgh had gone ballistic with the news that one of
Cayhall's shots in the dark had hit a target. You fight these bears for ten
years, up and down the appellate ladders, out of one courtroom and into
another, battling the creative legal minds of the ACLU and similar out-
fits, producing along the way enough paperwork to destroy a rain forest,
and right when you've got him in your sights, he fdes a ton of gangplank
appeals and one of them gets noticed by a judge somewhere who just
happens to be in a tender mood.

He had stormed down the hall to the office of Morris Henry, Dr.
Death himself, and together they hastily had assembled a team of their
best criminal boys. They met in a large library with rows and stacks of
the latest books. They reviewed the Cayhall petition and the applicable
law, and they plotted strategy. Witnesses were needed. Who had seen
Cayhall in the last month? Who could testify about the things he said
and did? There was no time for one of their doctors to examine him. He
had a doctor, but they didn't. This was a significant problem. To get
their hands on him with a reputable doctor, the state would be forced to
ask for time. And time meant a stay of execution. A stay was out of the
question.

The guards saw him every day. Who else? Roxburgh called Lucas
Mann, who suggested that he talk to Colonel Nugent. Nugent said he'd
seen Sam just hours earlier, and, yes, of course, he would be happy to
testify. Son of a bitch wasn't crazy. He was just mean. And Sergeant
Packer saw him every day. And the prison psychiatrist. Dr. N. StegaU,
had met with Sam, and she could testify. Nugent was anxious to help.
He also suggested the prison chaplain. And he would think about others.

Morris Henry organized a hit squad of four lawyers to do nothing but
dig for dirt on Dr. Anson Swinn. Find other cases he'd been involved in.
Talk to other lawyers around the country. Locate transcripts of his testi-
mony. The guy was nothing but a hired mouthpiece, a professional
testifier. Get the goods to discredit him.

Once Roxburgh had the attack planned and others doing the work,
he rode the elevator to the lobby of the building to chat with the press.

ADAM PARKED in a vacant spot on the grounds of the state capitol.
Goodman was waiting under a shade tree with his jacket off and sleeves
roUed up, his paisley bow tie perfect. Adam quickly introduced Carmen
to Mr. Goodman.

"The governor wants to see you at two. I just left his office, for the
third time this morning. Let's walk to our place," he said, waving toward
downtown. "It's just a coupla blocks."

THE CHAMBER 427

"Did you meet Sam?" Goodman asked Carmen.

"Yes. This morning."

"I'm glad you did."

"What's on the governor's mind?" Adam asked. They were walking
much too slow to suit him. Relax, he told himself. Just relax.

"Who knows? He wants to meet with you privately. Maybe the mar-
ket analysis is getting to him. Maybe he's planning a media stunt. Maybe
he's sincere. I can't read him. He does look tired, though."

"The phone calls are getting through?"

"Splendidly."

"No one's suspicious?"

"Not yet. Frankly, we're hitting them so fast and so hard 1 doubt they
have time to trace calls."

Carmen shot a blank look at her brother, who was too preoccupied to
see it.

"What's the latest from Slattery?" Adam asked as they crossed a street,
pausing for a minute in silence to watch the demonstration under way
on the front steps of the capitol.

"Nothing since ten this morning. His clerk called you in Memphis,
and your secretary gave him my number here. That's how they found
me. He told me about the hearing, and said Slattery wants the lawyers in
his chamber at three to plan things."

"What does this mean?" Adam asked, desperate for his mentor to say
that they were on the brink of a major victory.

Goodman sensed Adam's anxiety. "I honestly don't know. It's good
news, but no one knows how permanent it is. Hearings at this stage are
not unusual."

They crossed another street and entered the building. Upstairs, the
temporary office was buzzing as four law students rattled away on cord-
less phones. Two were sitting with their feet on the table. One stood in
the window and talked earnestly. One was pacing along the far wall,
phone stuck to her head. Adam stood by the door and tried to absorb
the scene. Carmen was hopelessly confused.

Goodman explained things in a loud whisper. "We're averaging about
sixty calls an hour. We dial more than that, but the lines stay jammed,
obviously. We're responsible for the jamming, and this keeps other peo-
ple from getting through. It was much slower over the weekend. The
hotline used only one operator." He delivered this summary like a proud
plant manager showing off the latest in automated machinery.

"Who are they calling?" Carmen asked.

A law student stepped forward and introduced himself to Adam, and
then to Carmen. He was having a ball, he said.

428 JOHN GRISHAM

"Would you like something to eat?" Goodman asked. "We have some
sandwiches." Adam declined.

"Who are they calling?" Carmen asked again.

"The governor's hotHne," Adam replied, without explanation. They
Ustened to the nearest caller as he changed his voice and read a name
from a phone Ust. He was now Benny Chase from Hickory Flat, Missis-
sippi, and he had voted for the governor and didn't think Sam Cayhall
should be executed. It was time for the governor to step forward and
take care of this situation.

Carmen cut her eyes at her brother, but he ignored her.

"These four are law students at Mississippi College," Goodman ex-
plained further. "We've used about a dozen students since Friday, differ-
ent ages, whites and blacks, male and female. Professor Glass has been
most helpful in finding these people. He's made calls too. So have Hez
Kerry and his boys at the Defense Group. We've had at least twenty
people calling."

They pulled three chairs to the end of a table and sat down. Goodman
found soft drinks in a plastic cooler, and sat them on the table. He
continued talking in a low voice. "John Bryan Glass is doing some
research as we speak. He'll have a brief prepared by four. Hez Kerry is
also at work. He's checking with his counterparts in other death states to
see if similar statutes have been used recently."

"Kerry is the black guy?" Adam said.

"Yeah, he's the director of the Southern Capital Defense Group. Very
sharp."

"A black lawyer busting his butt to save Sam."

"It makes no difference to Hez. It's just another death case."

"I'd like to meet him."

"You will. All these guys will be at the hearing."

"And they're working for free?" Carmen asked.

"Sort of Kerry is on salary. Part of his job is to monitor every death
case in this state, but since Sam has private lawyers Kerry is off the hook.
He's donating his time, but it's something he wants to do. Professor
Glass is on salary at the law school, but this is definitely outside the scope
of his employment there. We're paying these students five bucks an
hour."

"Who's paying them?" she asked.

"Dear old Kravitz & Bane."

Adam grabbed a nearby phonebook. "Carmen needs to get a flight
out of here this afternoon," he said, flipping to the yeUow pages.

"I'U take care of it," Goodman said, taking the phonebook. "Where
to?"

THE CHAM13EK 429

"San Francisco."

"I'll see what's available. Look, there's a Uttle deli around the corner.
Why don't you two get something to eat? We'U walk to the governor's
office at two."

"I need to get to a Hbrary," Adam said, looking at his watch. It was
almost one o'clock.

"Go eat, Adam. And try to relax. We'll have time later to sit down
with the brain trust and talk strategy. Right now, you need to relax and
eat."

"I'm hungry," Carmen said, anxious to be alone with her brother for
a few minutes. They eased from the room, and closed the door behind
them.

She stopped him in the shabby hallway before they reached the stairs.
"Please explain that to me," she insisted, grabbing his arm.

"What?"

"That little room in there."

"It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

"Is it legal?"

"It's not illegal."

"Is it ethical?"

Adam took a deep breath and stared at the wall. "What are they
planning to do with Sam?"

"Execute him."

"Execute, gas, exterminate, kill, call it what you want. But it's mur-
der. Carmen. Legal murder. It's wrong, and I'm trying to stop it. It's a
dirty business, and if I have to bend a few ethics, I don't care."

"It stinks."

"So does the gas chamber."

She shook her head and held her words. Twenty-four hours earlier
she'd been eating lunch with her boyfriend at a sidewalk cafe in San
Francisco. Now, she wasn't sure where she was.

"Don't condemn me for this, Carmen. These are desperate hours."

"Okay," she said, and headed down the stairs.

THE GOVERNOR and the young lawyer were alone in the vast office,
in the comfortable leather chairs, their legs crossed and feet almost
touching. Goodman was rushing Carmen to the airport to catch a flight.
Mona Stark was nowhere in sight.

"It's strange, you know, you're the grandson, and you've known him
for less than a month." McAllister's words were calm, almost tired. "But
I've known him for many years. In fact, he's been a part of my life for a
long time. And I've always thought that I'd look forward to this day. I've

430 JOHN GRISHAM

wanted him to die, you know, to be punished for killing those boys."
He flipped his bangs and gently rubbed his eyes. His words were so
genuine, as if two old friends were catching up on the gossip. "But now
I'm not so sure. I have to tell you, Adam, the pressure's getting to me."

He was either being brutally honest, or he was a talented actor. Adam
couldn't tell. "What will the state prove if Sam dies?" Adam asked. "Will
this be a better place to live when the sun comes up Wednesday morning
and he's dead?"

"No. But then you don't believe in the death penalty. I do."

"Why?"

"Because there has to be an ultimate punishment for murder. Put
yourself in Ruth Kramer's position, and you'd feel differently. The prob-
lem you have, Adam, and people like you, is that you forget about the
victims."

"We could argue for hours about the death penalty."

"You're right. Let's skip it. Has Sam told you anything new about the
bombing?" v

"I can't divulge what Sam's told me. But the answer is no."

"Maybe he acted alone, I don't know."

"What difference would it make today, the day before the execu-
tion?"

"I'm not sure, to be honest. But if I knew that Sam was only an
accomplice, that someone else was responsible for the killings, then it
would be impossible for me to allow him to be executed. I could stop it,
you know. I could do that. I'd catch hell for it. It would hurt me
politically. The damage could be irreparable, but I wouldn't mind. I'm
getting tired of politics. And I don't enjoy being placed in this position,
the giver or taker of life. But I could pardon Sam, if I knew the truth."

"You believe he had help. You've told me that already. The FBI agent
in charge of the investigation believes it too. Why don't you act on your
beliefs and grant clemency?"

"Because we're not certain."

"So, one word from Sam, just one name thrown out here in the final
hours, and, bingo, you take your pen and save his life?"

"No, but I might grant a reprieve so the name could be investigated."

"It won't happen. Governor. I've tried. I've asked so often, and he's
denied so much, that it's not even discussed anymore."

"Who's he protecting?"

"Hell if I know."

"Perhaps we're wrong. Has he ever given you the details of the bomb-

"3"

mg?

THE CHAMBER 431

"Again, I can't talk about our conversations. But he takes full respon-
sibility for it."

"Then why should I consider clemency? If the criminal himself claims
he did the crime, and acted alone, how am I supposed to help him?"

"Help him because he's an old man who'll die soon enough anyway.
Help him because it's the right thing to do, and deep down in your heart
you want to do it. It'll take guts."

"He hates me, doesn't he?"

"Yes. But he could come around. Give him a pardon and he'll be your
biggest fan."

McAllister smiled and unwrapped a peppermint. "Is he really insane?"

"Our expert says he is. We'll do our best to convince Judge Slattery."

"I know, but really? You've spent hours with him. Does he know
what's happening?"

At this point, Adam decided against honesty. McAllister was not a
friend, and not at all trustworthy. "He's pretty sad," Adam admitted.
"Frankly, I'm surprised any person can keep his mind after a few months
on death row. Sam was an old man when he got there, and he's slowly
wasted away. That's one reason he's declined all interviews. He's quite
pitiful."

Adam couldn't tell if the governor believed this, but he certainly
absorbed it.

"What's your schedule tomorrow?" McAllister asked.

"I have no idea. It depends on what happens in Slattery's court. I had
planned to spend most of the day with Sam, but I might be running
around filing last minute appeals."

"I gave you my private number. Let's keep in touch tomorrow."

SAM TOOK THREE BITES of pinto beans and some of the corn
bread, then placed the tray at the end of his bed. The same idiot guard
with the blank face watched him through the bars of the tier door. Life
was bad enough in these cramped cubicles, but living like an animal and
being watched was unbearable.

It was six o'clock, time for the evening news. He was anxious to hear
what the world was saying about him. The Jackson station began with
the breaking story of a last minute hearing before federal Judge F. Flynn
Slattery. The report cut to the outside of the federal courthouse in
Jackson where an anxious young man with a microphone explained that
the hearing had been delayed a bit as the lawyers wrangled in Slattery's
office. He tried his best to briefly explain the issue. The defense was
now claiming that Mr. Cayhall lacked sufficient mental capacity to un-
derstand why he was being executed. He was senile and insane, claimed

432 JOHN GRISHAM

the defense, which would call a noted psychiatrist in this last ditch effort
to stop the execution. The hearing was expected to get under w^ay at any
moment, and no one knew when a decision might be reached by Judge
Slattery. Back to the anchorwoman, who said that, meanwhile, up at the
state penitentiary at Parchman, all systems were go for the execution.
Another young man with a microphone was suddenly on the screen,
standing somewhere near the front gate of the prison, describing the
increased security. He pointed to his right, and the camera panned
the area near the highway where a regular carnival was happening. The
highway patrol was out in force, directing traffic and keeping a wary eye
on an assemblage of several dozen Ku Klux Klansmen. Other protestors
included various groups of white supremacists and the usual death pen-
alty abolitionists, he said.

The camera swung back to the reporter, who now had with him
Colonel George Nugent, acting superintendent for Parchman, and the
man in charge of the execution. Nugent grimly answered a few ques-
tions, said things were very much under control, and if the courts gave
the green light then the execution would be carried out according to the
law.

Sam turned off the television. Adam had called two hours earlier and
explained the hearing, so he was prepared to hear that he was senile and
insane and God knows what else. Still, he didn't like it. It was bad
enough waiting to be executed, but to have his sanity slandered so non-
chalantly seemed like a cruel invasion of privacy.

The tier was hot and quiet. The televisions and radios were turned
down. Next door. Preacher Boy softly sang "The Old Rugged Cross,"
and it was not unpleasant.

In a neat pile on the floor against the wall was his new outfit — a plain
white cotton shirt, Dickies, white socks, and a pair of brown loafers.
Donnie had spent an hour with him during the afternoon.

He turned off the light and relaxed on the bed. Thirty hours to live.

THE MAIN COURTROOM in the federal building was packed when
Slattery finally released the lawyers from his chamber for the third time.
It was the last of a series of heated conferences that had dragged on for
most of the afternoon. It w^as now almost seven.

They filed into the courtroom and took their places behind the ap-
propriate tables. Adam sat with Garner Goodman. In a row of chairs
behind them were Hez Kerry, John Bryan Glass, and three of his law
students. Roxburgh, Morris Henry, and a half dozen assistants crowded
around the state's table. Two rows behind them, behind the bar, sat the
governor with Mona Stark on one side and Larramore on the other.

THE CHAMBER 433

The rest of the crowd was primarily reporters — no cameras were al-
lowed. There were curious spectators, law students, other lawyers. It was
open to the public. In the back row, dressed comfortably in a sports coat
and tie, was Rollie Wedge.

Slattery made his entrance and everyone stood for a moment. "Be
seated," he said into his microphone. "Let's go on the record," he said
to the court reporter. He gave a succinct review of the petition and the
applicable law, and outlined the parameters of the hearing. He was not
in the mood for lengthy arguments and pointless questions, so move it
along, he told the lawyers.

"Is the petitioner ready?" he asked in Adam's direction. Adam stood
nervously, and said, "Yes sir. The petitioner calls Dr. Anson Swinn."

Swinn stood from the first row and walked to the witness stand where
he was sworn in. Adam walked to the podium in the center of the
courtroom, holding his notes and pushing himself to be strong. His notes
were typed and meticulous, the result of some superb research and prep-
aration by Hez Kerry and John Bryan Glass. The two, along with
Kerry's staff, had devoted the entire day to Sam Cayhall and this hearing.
And they were ready to work all night and throughout tomorrow.

Adam began by asking Swinn some basic questions about his educa-
tion and training. Swinn's answers were accented with the crispness of
the upper Midwest, and this was fme. Experts should talk differently and
travel great distances in order to be highly regarded. With his black hair,
black beard, black glasses, and black suit, he indeed gave the appearance
of an ominously brilliant master of his field. The preliminary questions
were short and to the point, but only because Slattery had already re-
viewed Swinn's qualifications and ruled that he could in fact testify as an
expert. The state could attack his credentials on cross-examination, but
his testimony would go into the record.

With Adam leading the way, Swinn talked about his two hours with
Sam Cayhall on the previous Tuesday. He described his physical condi-
tion, and did so with such relish that Sam sounded Hke a corpse. He was
quite probably insane, though insanity was a legal term, not medical. He
had difficulty answering even basic questions like What did you eat for
breakfast? Who is in the cell next to you? When did your wife die? Who
was your lawyer during the first trial? And on and on.

Swinn very carefully covered his tracks by repeatedly teUing the court
that two hours simply was not enough time to thoroughly diagnose Mr.
Cayhall. More time was needed.

In his opinion, Sam Cayhall did not appreciate the fact that he was
about to die, did not understand why he was being executed, and cer-
tainly didn't realize he was being punished for a crime. Adam gritted his

434 JOHN GRISHAM

teeth to keep from wincing at times, but Swinn was certainly convinc-
ing. Mr. Cayhall was completely calm and at ease, clueless about his fate,
wasting away his days in a six-by-nine cell. It was quite sad. One of the
worst cases he'd encountered.

Under different circumstances, Adam would' ve been horrified to
place on the stand a witness so obviously full of buU. But at this moment,
he w^as mighty proud of this bizarre little man. Human Hfe was at stake.

Slattery was not about to cut short the testimony of Dr. Sw^inn. This
case would be reviewed instantly by the Fifth Circuit and perhaps the
U.S. Supreme Court, and he wanted no one from above second-guess-
ing him. Goodman suspected this, and Swinn had been prepped to
ramble. So with the court's indulgence, Swinn launched into the Hkely
causes of Sam's problems. He described the horrors of Uving in a ceU
twenty-three hours a day; of knowing the gas chamber is a stone's throw
away; of being denied companionship, decent food, sex, movement,
plenty of exercise, fresh air. He'd worked with many death row inmates
around the country and knew their problems well. Sam, of course, was
much different because of his age. The average death row inmate is
thirty-one years old, and has spent four years waiting to die. Sam was
sixty when he first arrived at Parchman. Physically and mentally, he was
not suited for it. It was inevitable he would deteriorate.

Swinn was under Adam's direct examination for forty-five minutes.
When Adam had exhausted his questions, he sat down. Steve Roxburgh
strutted to the podium, and stared at Swinn.

Swinn knew what was coming, and he was not the least bit con-
cerned. Roxburgh began by asking who was paying for his services, and
how much he was charging. Swinn said Kravitz & Bane was paying him
two hundred dollars an hour. Big deal. There was no jury in the box.
Slattery knew that all experts get paid, or they couldn't testify. Rox-
burgh tried to chip away at Swinn's professional quaUfications, but got
nowhere. The man was a well-educated, weU-trained, experienced psy-
chiatrist. So what if he decided years ago he could make more money as
an expert witness. His qualifications weren't diminished. And Roxburgh
was not about to argue medicine with a doctor.

The questions grew even stranger as Roxburgh began asking about
other lawsuits in which Swinn had testified. There was a kid who was
burned in a car wreck in Ohio, and Swinn had given his opinion that
the child was completely, mentally disabled. Hardly an extreme opinion.

"Where are you going with this?" Slattery interrupted loudly.

Roxburgh glanced at his notes, then said, "Your Honor, we're at-
tempting to discredit this witness."

"I know that. But it's not working, Mr. Roxburgh. This court knows

THE CHAMBER 435

that this witness has testified in many trials around the country. What's
the point?"

"We are attempting to show that he is willing to state some pretty
wild opinions if the money is right."

"Lawyers do that every day, Mr. Roxburgh."

There was some very light laughter in the audience, but very reserved.

"I don't want to hear it," Slattery snapped. "Now move on."

Roxburgh should've sat down, but the moment was too rich for that.
He moved to the next minefield, and began asking questions about
Swinn's examination of Sam. He went nowhere. Swinn fielded each
question with a fluid answer that only added to his testimony on direct
examination. He repeated much of the sad description of Sam Cayhall.
Roxburgh scored no points, and once thoroughly trounced, finally went
to his seat. Swinn was dismissed from the stand.

The next and last witness for the petitioner was a surprise, though
Slattery had already approved him. Adam called Mr. E. Garner Good-
man to the stand.

Goodman was sworn, and took his seat. Adam asked about his firm's
representation of Sam Cayhall, and Goodman briefly outlined the his-
tory of it for the record. Slattery already knew most of it. Goodman
smiled when he recalled Sam's efforts to fire Kravitz & Bane.

"Does Kravitz & Bane represent Mr. CayhaD at this moment?" Adam
asked.

"Indeed we do."

"And you're here in Jackson at this moment working on the case?"

"That's correct."

"In your opinion, Mr. Goodman, do you believe Sam Cayhall has
told his lawyers everything about the Kramer bombing?"

"No I do not."

Rollie Wedge sat up a bit and listened intensely.

"Would you please explain?"

"Certainly. There has always been strong circumstantial evidence that
another person was with Sam CayhaU during the Kramer bombing, and
the bombings which preceded it. Mr. Cayhall always refused to discuss
this with me, his lawyer, and even now will not cooperate with his
attorneys. Obviously, at this point in this case, it is crucial that he tully
divulge everything to his lawyers. And he is unable to do so. There are
facts we should know, but he won't tell us."

Wedge was at once nervous and relieved. Sam was holding fast, but his
lawyers were trying everything.

Adam asked a few more questions, and sat down. Roxburgh asked
only one. "When was the last time you spoke with Mr. Cayhall?"

436 JOHN GRISHAM

Goodman hesitated and thought about the answer. He honestly
couldn't remember exactly w^hen. "I'm not sure. It's been two or three
years."

"Two or three years? And you're his lawyer?"

"I'm one of his lawyers. Mr. Hall is no\A^ the principal lawyer on this
case, and he's spent innumerable hours with the cHent during the last
month."

Roxburgh sat down, and Goodman returned to his seat at the table.

"We have no more witnesses. Your Honor," Adam said for the record.

"Call your first witness, Mr. Roxburgh," Slattery said.

"The state calls Colonel George Nugent," Roxburgh announced.
Nugent was found in the hallway, and escorted to the witness stand. His
olive shirt and pants were wrinkle-free. The boots were gleaming. He
stated for the record who he was and what he was doing. "I was at
Parchman an hour ago," he said, looking at his watch. "Just flew down
on the state heHcopter."

"When did you last see Sam CayhaU?" Roxburgh asked.

"He was moved to the Observation Cell at nine this morning. I spoke
with him then."

"Was he mentally alert, or just drooling over in the corner Uke an
idiot?"

Adam started to jump and object, but Goodman grabbed his arm.

"He was extremely alert," Nugent said eagerly. "Very sharp. He asked
me w^hy he w^as being moved from his cell to another one. He under-
stood what was happening. He didn't like it, but then Sam doesn't like
anything these days."

"Did you see him yesterday?"

"Yes."

"And was he able to speak, or just lying around like a vegetable?"

"Oh, he w^as quite talkative."

"What did you talk about?"

"I had a checklist of things I needed to cover with Sam. He was very
hostile, even threatened me with bodily harm. He's a very abrasive per-
son with a sharp tongue. He settled down a bit, and we talked about his
last meal, his w^itnesses, what to do v^^ith his personal effects. Things such
as that. We talked about the execution."

"Is he aware he is about to be executed?"

Nugent burst into laughter. "What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer it," Slattery said without a smile.

"Of course he knows. He knows damned well what's going on. He's
not crazy. He told me the execution would not take place because his

THE CHAMBER 437

lawyers were about to unload the heavy artillery, as he put it. They've
planned all this." Nugent waved both hands at the entire courtroom.

Roxburgh asked about prior meetings with Sam, and Nugent spared
no details. He seemed to remember every word Sam had uttered in the
past two weeks, especially the biting sarcasm and caustic remarks.

Adam knew it was all true. He huddled quickly with Garner Good-
man, and they decided to forgo any cross-examination. Little could be
gained from it.

Nugent marched down the aisle and out of the courtroom. The man
had a mission. He was needed at Parchman.

The state's second witness was Dr. N. Stegall, psychiatrist for the
Department of Corrections. She made her way to the witness stand as
Roxburgh conferred with Morris Henry.

"State your name for the record," Slattery said.

"Dr. N. Stegall."

"Ann?" His Honor asked.

"No. N. It's an initial."

Slattery looked down at her, then looked at Roxburgh who shrugged
as if he didn't know what to say.

The judge eased even closer to the edge of his bench, and peered
down at the witness stand. "Look, Doctor, I didn't ask for your initial, I
asked for your name. Now, you state it for the record, and be quick
about it."

She jerked her eyes away from his, cleared her throat, and reluctantly
said, "Neldeen."

No wonder, thought Adam. Why hadn't she changed it to something
else?

Roxburgh seized the moment and asked her a rapid series of questions
about her qualifications and training. Slattery had already deemed her fit
to testify.

"Now, Dr. Stegall," Roxburgh began, careful to avoid any reference
to Neldeen, "when did you meet with Sam Cayhall?"

She held a sheet of paper which she looked at. "Thursday, July 26."

"And the purpose of this visit?"

"As part of my job, I routinely visit death row inmates, especially
those with executions approaching. I provide counseling and medica-
tion, if they request it."

"Describe Mr. Cayhall's mental condition?"

"Extremely alert, very bright, very sharp-tongued, almost to the point
of being rude. In fact, he was quite rude to me, and he asked me not to
come back."

"Did he discuss his execution?"

438 JOHN GRISHAM

"Yes. In fact, he knew that he had thirteen days to go, and he accused
me of trying to give him medication so he wouldn't be any trouble
■when his time came. He also expressed concern for another death row
inmate, Randy Dupree, who Sam thinks is deteriorating mentally. He
was most concerned about Mr. Dupree, and chastised me for not exam-
ining him."

"In your opinion, is he suffering firom any form of decreased mental
capacity?"

"Not at all. His mind is very sharp."

"No further questions," Roxburgh said, and sat down.

Adam walked purposefully to the podium. "TeU us. Dr. StegaU, how
is Randy Dupree doing?" he asked at fuU volume.

"I, uh, I haven't had a chance to see him yet."

"Sam told you about him eleven days ago, and you haven't bothered
to meet with him."

"I've been busy."

"How long have you held your present job?"

"Four years."

"And in four years how many times have you talked to Sam CayhaU?"

"Once."

"You don't care much for the death row inmates, do you, Dr. Ste-
gaU?"

"I certainly do."

"How many men are on death row right now?"

"Well, uh, I'm not sure. Around forty, I think."

"How many have you actually talked to? Give us a few names."

Whether it was fear or anger or ignorance, no one could tell. But
Neldeen froze. She grimaced and cocked her head to one side, obviously
trying to puU a name from the air, and obviously unable to do so. Adam
allowed her to hang for a moment, then said, "Thank you. Dr. Stegall."
He turned and walked slowly back to his chair.

"Call your next witness," Slattery demanded.

"The state calls Sergeant Clyde Packer."

Packer was fetched from the haUway and led to the front of the court-
room. He was stiU in uniform, but the gun had been removed. He swore
to teU the truth, and took his seat on the witness stand.

Adam was not surprised at the effect of Packer's testimony. He was an
honest man who simply told what he'd seen. He'd known Sam for nine
and a half years, and he was the same today as he was when he first
arrived. He typed letters and law papers all day long, read many books,
especially legal ones. He typed writs for his buddies on the Row, and he
typed letters to wives and girlfriends for some of the guys who couldn't

THE CHAMBER 439

spell. He chain-smoked because he wanted to kill himself before the state
got around to it. He loaned money to friends. In Packer's humble opin-
ion, Sam was as mentally alert now as he'd been nine and a half years
earlier. And his mind was very quick.

Slattery leaned a bit closer to the edge of the bench when Packer
described Sam's checkers games with Henshaw and Gullitt.

"Does he win?" His Honor asked, interrupting.

"Almost always."

Perhaps the turning point of the hearing came when Packer told the
story of Sam wanting to see a sunrise before he died. It happened late last
week when Packer was making his rounds one morning. Sam had qui-
etly made the request. He knew he was about to die, said he was ready to
go, and that he'd like to sneak out early one morning to the bullpen on
the east end and see the sun come up. So Packer took care of it, and last
Saturday Sam spent an hour sipping coffee and waiting for the sun.
Afterward, he was very grateful.

Adam had no questions for Packer. He was excused, and left the
courtroom.

Roxburgh announced that the next witness was Ralph Griffm, the
prison chaplain. Griffm was led to the stand, and looked uncomfortably
around the courtroom. He gave his name and occupation, then glanced
warily at Roxburgh.

"Do you know Sam Cayhall?" Roxburgh asked.

"I do."

"Have you counseled him recently?"

"Yes."

"When did you last see him?"

"Yesterday. Sunday."

"And how would you describe his mental state?"
I can t.

"I beg your pardon."

"I said I can't describe his mental condition."

"Why not?"

"Because right now I'm his minister, and anything he says or does in
my presence is strictly confidential. I can't testify against Mr. Cayhall."

Roxburgh stalled for a moment, trying to decide what to do next. It
was obvious neither he nor his learned underlings had given any thought
to this situation. Perhaps they'd just assumed that since the chaplain was
working for the state, then he'd cooperate with them. Griffin waited
expectantly for an assault from Roxburgh.

Slattery settled the matter quickly. "A very good point, Mr. Rox-
burgh. This witness should not be here. Who's next?"

440 JOHN GRISHAM

"No further witnesses," the Attorney General said, anxious to leave
the podium and get to his seat.

His Honor scribbled some notes at length, then looked at the crowded
courtroom. "I will take this matter under advisement and render an
opinion, probably early in the morning. As soon as my decision is ready,
we will notify the attorneys. You don't need to hang around here. We'U
call you. Court's adjourned."

Everyone stood and hurried for the rear doors. Adam caught the
Reverend Ralph Griffm and thanked him, then he returned to the table
where Goodman, Hez Kerry, Professor Glass, and the students were
waiting. They huddled and whispered until the crowd was gone, then
left the courtroom. Someone mentioned drinks and dinner. It was al-
most nine.

Reporters were waiting outside the door to the courtroom. Adam
threw out a few polite no-comments and kept walking. RoUie Wedge
eased behind Adam and Goodman as they inched through the crowded
hallway. He vanished as they left the building.

Two groups of cameras were ready outside. On the front steps, Rox-
burgh was addressing one batch of reporters, and not far away on the
sidewalk, the governor was holding forth. As Adam walked by, he heard
McAllister say that clemency was being considered, and that it would be
a long night. Tomorrow would be even tougher. Would he attend the
execution? someone asked. Adam couldn't hear the reply.

THEY MET at Hal and Mai's, a popular downtown restaurant and
watering hole. Hez found a large table in a corner near the front and
ordered a round of beer. A blues band was cranked up in the back. The
dining room and bar were crowded.

Adam sat in a corner, next to Hez, and relaxed for the first time in
hours. The beer went down fast and calmed him. They ordered red
beans and rice, and chatted about the hearing. Hez said he'd performed
wonderfully, and the law students were full of compliments. The mood
was optimistic. Adam thanked them for their help. Goodman and Glass
were at the far end of the table, lost in a conversation about another
death row case. Time passed slowly, and Adam attacked his dinner when
it arrived.

"This is probably not a good time to bring this up," Hez said out of
the corner of his mouth. He wanted no one to hear but Adam. The
band was even louder now.

"I guess you'll go back to Chicago when this is over," he said, looking
at Goodman to make sure he was still engaged with Glass.

THECHAMBER 441

"I guess SO," Adam said, without conviction. He'd had little time to
think past tomorrow.

"Well, just so you'll know, there's an opening in our office. One of
my guys is going into private practice, and we're looking for a new
lawyer. It's nothing but death work, you know."

"You're right," Adam said quietly. "This is a lousy time to bring it
up-" ^

"It's tough work, but it's satisfying. It's also heartbreaking. And neces-
sary." Hez chewed on a bite of sausage, and washed it down with beer.
"The money is lousy, compared with what you're making with the firm.
Tight budget, long hours, lots of clients."

"How much?"

"I can start you at thirty thousand."

"I'm making sixty-two right now. With more on the way."

"I've been there. I was making seventy with a big firm in D.C. when
I gave it up to come here. I was on the fast track to a partnership, but it
was easy to quit. Money's not everything."

"You enjoy this?"

"It grows on you. It takes strong moral convictions to fight the system
like this. Just think about it."

Goodman was now looking their way. "Are you driving to Parchman
tonight?" he asked loudly.

Adam was finishing his second beer. He wanted a third, but no more.
Exhaustion was rapidly setting in. "No. I'll wait until we hear something
in the morning."

They ate and drank and Hstened to Goodman and Glass and Kerry tell
war stories of other executions. The beer flowed, and the atmosphere
went from optimism to outright confidence.

SAM LAY in the darkness and waited for midnight. He'd watched the
late news and learned that the hearing was over, and that the clock was
still ticking. There was no stay. His life was in the hands of a federal
judge.

At one minute after midnight, he closed his eyes and said a prayer. He
asked God to help Lee with her troubles, to be with Carmen, and to
give Adam the strength to survive the inevitable.

He had twenty-four hours to live. He folded his hands over his chest,
and fell asleep.

FORTY-SEVEN

NUGENT WAITED until exactly seven-thirty to close the door
and start the meeting. He walked to the front of the room, and
surveyed his troops. "I just left MSU," he said somberly. "The
inmate is awake and alert, not at all the blithering zombie we read about
in the paper this morning." He paused and smiled and expected every-
one to admire his humor. It went undetected.

"In fact, he's already had his breakfast, and is already bitching about
w^anting his recreation time. So at least something is normal around here.
There's no word from the federal court in Jackson, so this thing is on
schedule unless we hear otherwise. Correct, Mr. Mann?"

Lucas was sitting at the table across the front of the room, reading the
paper and trying to ignore the colonel. "Right."

"Now, there are two areas of concern. First is the press. I've assigned
Sergeant Moreland here to handle these bastards. We're gonna move
them to the Visitors Center just inside the front gate, and try to keep
them pinned down there. We're gonna surround them with guards, and
just dare them to venture about. At four this afternoon, I'll conduct the
lottery to see which reporters get to watch the execution. As of yester-
day, there were over a hundred names on the request list. They get five
seats.

"The second problem is what's happening outside the gate. The gov-
ernor has agreed to assign three dozen troopers for today and tomorrow,
and they'U be here shortly. We have to keep our distance from these
nuts, especially the skinheads, sumbitches are crazy, but at the same time
we have to maintain order. There were two fights yesterday, and things

THE CHAMBER 443

could've deteriorated rapidly if we hadn't been watching. If the execu-
tion takes place, there could be some tense moments. Any questions?"

There were none.

"Very well. I'll expect everyone to act professionally today, and carry
this out in a responsible manner. Dismissed." He snapped off a smart
salute, and proudly watched them leave the room.

SAM STRADDLED THE BENCH with the checkerboard in front of
him, and waited patiently for J. B. Gullitt to enter the bullpen. He
sipped the stale remains of a cup of coffee.

GulUtt stepped through the door, and paused as the handcuffs were
removed. He rubbed his wrists, shielded his eyes from the sun, and
looked at his friend sitting alone. He walked to the bench and took his
position across the board.

Sam never looked up.

"Any good news, Sam?" Gullitt asked nervously. "Tell me it won't
happen."

"Just move," Sam said, staring at the checkers.

"It can't happen, Sam," he pleaded.

"It's your turn to go first. Move."

Gullitt slowly lowered his eyes to the board.

THE PREVAILING THEORY of the morning was that the longer
Slattery sat on the petition, the greater the likelihood of a stay. But this
was the conventional wisdom of those who were praying for a reprieve.
No word had come by 9 a.m., nothing by 9:30.

Adam waited in Hez Kerry's office, which had become the operations
center during the past twenty-four hours. Goodman was across town
supervising the relentless hounding of the governor's hotline, a task he
seemed to savor. John Bryan Glass had parked himself outside Slattery's
office.

In the event Slattery denied a stay, they would immediately appeal to
the Fifth Circuit. The appeal was completed by nine, just in case. Kerry
had also prepared a petition for cert to the U.S. Supreme Court if the
Fifth Circuit turned them down. The paperwork was waiting. Every-
thing was waiting.

To occupy his mind, Adam called everyone he could think of He
called Carmen in Berkeley. She was asleep and fine. He called Lee's
condo, and, of course, there was no answer. He caUed Phelps' office and
talked to a secretary. He called Darlene to tell her he had no idea when
he might return. He called McAllister's private number, but got a busy
signal. Perhaps Goodman had it jammed too.

444 JOHN GRISHAM

He called Sam and talked about the hearing last night, with special
emphasis on the Reverend Ralph Griffin. Packer had testified too, he
explained, and told only the truth. Nugent, typically, was an ass. He told
Sam he would be there around noon. Sam asked him to hurry.

By eleven, Slattery's name was being cursed and defamed with righ-
teous fervor. Adam had had enough. He called Goodman and said he
^vas driving to Parchman. He said fare"well to Hez Kerry, and thanked
him again.

Then he raced away, out of the city of Jackson, north on Highway 49.
Parchman was two hours away if he drove within the speed Hmit. He
found a talk radio station that promised the latest news twice an hour,
and listened to an interminable discussion about casino gambling in Mis-
sissippi. There was nothing new on the Cayhall execution at the eleven-
thirty newsbreak.

He drove eighty and ninety, passing on yellow Hnes and on curves and
over bridges. He sped through speed zones in tiny towns and hamlets.
He was uncertain what drew him to Parchman with such speed. There
wasn't much he could do once he got there. The legal maneuverings had
been left behind in Jackson. He would sit with Sam and count the hours.
Or maybe they would celebrate a wonderful gift from federal court.

He stopped at a roadside grocery near the small town of Flora for gas
and fruit juice, and he was driving away from the pumps when he heard
the news. The bored and listless talk show host was now filled with
excitement as he relayed the breaking story in the Cayhall case. United
States District Court Judge F. Flynn Slattery had just denied Cayhall's
last petition, his claim to be mentally incompetent. The matter would be
appealed to the Fifth Circuit within the hour. Sam Cayhall had just
taken a giant step toward the Mississippi gas chamber, the host said
dramatically.

Instead of punching the accelerator, Adam slowed to a reasonable
speed and sipped his drink. He turned off the radio. He cracked his
window to allow the warm air to circulate. He cursed Slattery for many
miles, talking vainly at the windshield and dragging up all sorts of vile
names. It was now a Httle past noon. Slattery, in all fairness, could' ve
ruled five hours ago. Hell, if he had guts he could' ve ruled last night.
They could be in front of the Fifth Circuit already. He cursed Breck
Jefferson also, for good measure.

Sam had told him from the beginning that Mississippi wanted an
execution. It was lagging behind Louisiana and Texas and Florida, even
Alabama and Georgia and Virginia were killing at a more enviable rate.
Something had to be done. The appeals were endless. The criminals
were coddled. Crime was rampant. It was time to execute somebody and

THE CHAMBER 445

show the rest of the country that this state was serious about law and
order.

Adam finally believed him.

He stopped the swearing after a while. He finished the drink and
threw the bottle over the car and into a ditch, in direct violation of
Mississippi laws against Uttering. It was difficult to express his present
opinions of Mississippi and its laws.

He could see Sam sitting in his ceD, watching the television, hearing
the news.

Adam's heart ached for the old man. He had failed as a lawyer. His
client was about to die at the hands of the government, and there wasn't
a damned thing he could do about it.

THE NEWS electrified the army of reporters and cameramen now
sprawled about the small Visitors Center just inside the front gate. They
gathered around portable televisions and watched their stations in Jack-
son and Memphis. At least four shot live segments from Parchman while
countless others milled around the area. Their Httle section of ground
had been cordoned off by ropes and barricades, and was being watched
closely by Nugent's troops.

The racket increased noticeably along the highway when the news
spread. The Klansmen, now a hundred strong, began chanting loudly in
the direction of the administration buildings. The skinheads and Nazis
and Aryans hurled obscenities at anyone who would listen to them. The
nuns and other silent protestors sat under umbrellas and tried to ignore
their rowdy neighbors.

Sam heard the news as he was holding a bowl of turnip greens, his
final meal before his last meal. He stared at the television, watched the
scenes switch from Jackson to Parchman and back again. A young black
lawyer he'd never heard of was talking to a reporter and explaining what
he and the rest of the Cayhall defense team would do next.

His friend Buster Moac had complained that there were so damned
many lawyers involved with his case in the last days that he couldn't keep
up with who was on his side and who was trying to kill him. But Sam
was certain Adam was in control.

He finished the turnip greens, and placed the bowl on the tray at the
foot of his bed. He walked to the bars and sneered at the blank-faced
guard watching him from behind the tier door. The hall was silent. The
televisions were on in every cell, all turned low and being watched with
morbid interest. Not a single voice could be heard, and that in itself was
extremely rare.

He pulled off his red jumpsuit for the last time, wadded it up and

446 JOHN GRISHAM

threw it in a corner. He kicked the rubber shower shoes under his bed,
never to see them again. He carefully placed his new outfit on the bed,
arranged it just so, then slowly unbuttoned the short-sleeved shirt and
put it on. It fit nicely. He slid his legs into the stiff work khakis, pulled
the zipper up and buttoned the waist. The pants were two inches too
long, so he sat on the bed and turned them up into neat, precise cuffs.
The cotton socks w^ere thick and soothing. The shoes were a bit large
but not a bad fit.

The sensation of being fully dressed in real clothes brought sudden,
painful memories of the free world. These were the pants he'd "worn for
forty years, until he'd been incarcerated. He'd bought them at the old
dry goods store on the square in Clanton, always keeping four or five
pair in the bottom drawer of his large dresser. His wife pressed them
with no starch, and after a half dozen washings they felt like old pajamas.
He wore them to work and he wore them to town. He wore them on
fishing trips with Eddie, and he wore them on the porch swinging Uttle
Lee. He wore them to the coffee shop and to Klan meetings. Yes, he'd
even worn them on that fateful trip to Greenville to bomb the office of
the radical Jew.

He sat on his bed and pinched the sharp creases under his knees. It
had been nine years and six months since he had worn these pants. Only
fitting, he guessed, that he should now wear them to the gas chamber.

They'd be cut from his body, placed in a bag, and burned.

ADAM STOPPED FIRST at Lucas Mann's office. Louise at the front
gate had given him a note saying it was important. Mann closed the door
behind him and offered a seat. Adam decHned. He was anxious to see
Sam.

"The Fifth Circuit received the appeal thirty minutes ago," Mann
said. "I thought you might want to use my phone to call Jackson."

"Thanks. But I'll use the one at the Row."

"Fine. I'm talking to the AG's office every half hour, so if I hear
something I'll give you a call."

"Thanks." Adam was fidgeting.

"Does Sam want a last meal?"

"I'll ask him in a minute."

"Fine. Give me a call, or just teU Packer. What about witnesses?"

"Sam will have no witnesses."

"What about you?"

"No. He won't allow it. We agreed on it a long time ago."

"Fine. I can't think of anything else. I have a fax and a phone, and
things may be a bit quieter in here. Feel free to use my office."

THE CHAMBER 447

"Thanks," Adam said, stepping from the office. He drove slowly to
the Row and parked for the last time in the dirt lot next to the fence. He
walked slowly to the guard tower and placed his keys in the bucket.

Four short weeks ago he had stood there and watched the red bucket
descend for the first time, and he'd thought how crude but effective this
little system was. Only four weeks! It seemed like years.

He waited for the double gates, and met Tiny on the steps.

Sam was already in the front office, sitting on the edge of the desk,
admiring his shoes. "Check out the new threads," he said proudly when
Adam entered.

Adam stepped close and inspected the clothing from shoes to shirt.
Sam was beaming. His face was clean-shaven. "Spiffy. Real spifly."

"A regular dude, aren't I?"

"You look nice, Sam, real nice. Did Donnie bring these?"

"Yeah. He got them at the dollar store. I started to order some de-
signer threads from New York, but what the hell. It's only an execution.
I told you I wouldn't allow them to kill me in one of those red prison
suits. I took it off a while ago, never to wear one again. I have to admit,
Adam, it was a good feeling."

"You've heard the latest?"

"Sure. It's all over the news. Sorry about the hearing."

"It's in the Fifth Circuit now, and I feel good about it. I Hke our
chances there."

Sam smiled and looked away, as if the little boy was telling his grand-
father a harmless He. "They had a black lawyer on television at noon,
said he was working for me. What the hell's going on?"

"That was probably Hez Kerry." Adam placed his briefcase on the
desk and sat down.

"Am I paying him too?"

"Yeah, Sam, you're paying him at the same rate you're paying me."

"Just curious. That screwball doctor, what's his name, Swinn? He
must've done a number on me."

"It was pretty sad, Sam. When he finished testifying, the entire court-
room could see you floating around your cell, scratching your teeth and
peeing on the floor."

"Well, I'm about to be put out of my misery." Sam's words were
strong and loud, almost defiant. There was not a trace of fear. "Look, I
have a small favor to ask of you," he said, reaching for yet another
envelope.

"Who is it this time?"

Sam handed it to him. "I want you to take this to the highway by the
firont gate, and I want you to find the leader of that bunch of Kluckers

448 JOHN GRISHAM

out there, and I want you to read it to him. Try and get the cameras to
film it, because I want people to know what it says."

Adam held it suspiciously. "What does it say?"

"It's quick and to the point. I ask them aU to go home. To leave me
alone, so that I can die in peace. I've never heard of some of those
groups, and they're getting a lot of mileage out of my death."

"You can't make them leave, you know."

"I know. And I don't expect them to. But the television makes it
appear as if these are my friends and cronies. I don't know a single
person out there."

"I'm not so sure it's a good idea right now," Adam said, thinking out
loud.

"Why not?"

"Because as we speak, we're telling the Fifth Circuit that you're basi-
cally a vegetable, incapable of putting together thoughts like this."

Sam was suddenly angry. "You lawyers," he sneered. "Don't you ever
give up? It's over, Adam, stop playing games."

"It's not over."

"As far as I'm concerned it is. Now, take the damned letter and do as
I say."

"Pdght now?" Adam asked, looking at his watch. It was one-thirty.

"Yes! Right now. I'll be waiting here."

ADAM PAP.KED by the guardhouse at the firont gate, and explained to
Louise what he was about to do. He was nervous. She gave a leery look
at the white envelope in his hand, and yelled for two uniformed guards
to walk over. They escorted Adam through the front gate and toward the
demonstration area. Some reporters covering the protestors recognized
Adam, and immediately flocked to him. He and the guards walked
quickly along the front fence, ignoring their questions. Adam was scared
but determined, and more than a little comforted by his newly found
bodyguards.

He walked directly to the blue and white canopy which marked the
headquarters for the Klan, and by the time he stopped, a group of white-
robes was waiting for him. The press encircled Adam, his guards, the
Klansmen. "Who's in charge here?" Adam demanded, holding his
breath.

"Who wants to know?" asked a burly young man with a black beard
and sunburned cheeks. Sweat dripped from his eyebrows as he stepped
forward.

"I have a statement here from Sam Cayhall," Adam said loudly, and

THE CHAMBER 449

the circle compressed. Cameras clicked. Reporters shoved microphones
and recorders into the air around Adam.

"Quiet," someone yeUed.

"Get back!" one of the guards snapped.

A tense group of Klansmen, all in matching robes but most without
the hoods, packed tighter together in front of Adam. He recognized
none of them from his last confrontation on Friday. These guys did not
look too friendly.

The racket stopped along the grassy strip as the crowd pushed closer
to hear Sam's lawyer.

Adam pulled the note from the envelope and held it with both hands.
"My name is Adam Hall, and I'm Sam Cayhall's lawyer. This is a state-
ment from Sam," he repeated. "It's dated today, and addressed to all
members of the Ku Klux Klan, and to the other groups demonstrating
on his behalf here today. I quote: 'Please leave. Your presence here is of
no comfort to me. You're using my execution as a means to further your
own interests. I do not know a single one of you, nor do I care to meet
you. Please go away immediately. I prefer to die without the benefit of
your theatrics.' "

Adam glanced at the stern faces of the Klansmen, all hot and dripping
with perspiration. "The last paragraph reads as follows, and I quote: 'I
am no longer a member of the Ku Klux Klan. I repudiate that organiza-
tion and all that it stands for. I would be a free man today had I never
heard of the Ku Klux Klan.' It's signed by Sam Cayhall." Adam flipped it
over and thrust it toward the Kluckers, all of whom were speechless and
stunned.

The one with the black beard and sunburned cheeks lunged at Adam
in an attempt to grab the letter. "Gimme that!" he yelled, but Adam
yanked it away. The guard to Adam's right stepped forward quickly and
blocked the man, who pushed the guard. The guard shoved him back,
and for a few terrifying seconds Adam's bodyguards scuffled with a few
of the Kluckers. Other guards had been watching nearby, and within
seconds they were in the middle of the shoving match. Order was re-
stored quickly. The crowd backed away.

Adam smirked at the Kluckers. "Leave!" Adam shouted. "You heard
what he said! He's ashamed of you!"

"Go to hell!" the leader yelled back.

The two guards grabbed Adam and led him away before he stirred
them up again. They moved rapidly toward the front gate, knocking
reporters and cameramen out of the way. They practically ran through
the entrance, past another hne of guards, past another swarm ot report-
ers, and finally to Adam's car.

450 JOHN GRISHAM

"Don't come back up here, okay?" one of the guards pleaded with
him.

MCALLISTER'S OFFICE was known to have more leaks than an old
toilet. By early afternoon, Tuesday, the hottest gossip in Jackson was that
the governor was seriously considering clemency for Sam CayhaU. The
gossip spread rapidly firom the capitol to the reporters outside where it
was picked up by other reporters and onlookers and repeated, not as
gossip, but as soHd rumor. Within an hour of the leak, the rumor had
risen to the level of near-fact.

Mona Stark met in the rotunda with the press and promised a state-
ment by the governor at a later hour. The courts were not finished with
the case, she explained. Yes, the governor was under tremendous pres-
sure.

FORTY-EIGHT

IT TOOK THE FIFTH CIRCUIT less than three hours to bump
the last of the gangplank appeals along to the U.S. Supreme Court.
A brief telephone conference was held at three. Hez Kerry and
Garner Goodman raced to Roxburgh's office across from the state capi-
tol building. The Attorney General had a phone system fancy enough to
hook up himself, Goodman, Kerry, Adam and Lucas Mann at Parchman,
Justice Robichaux in Lake Charles, Justice Judy in New Orleans, and
Justice McNeely in Amarillo, Texas. The three-judge panel allowed
Adam and Roxburgh to make their arguments, then the conference was
disbanded. At four o'clock, the clerk of the court called all parties with
the denial, and faxes soon followed. Kerry and Goodman quickly faxed
the appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court.

Sam was in the process of receiving his last physical exam when Adam
finished his short chat with the clerk. He slowly hung up the phone.
Sam was scowling at the young, frightened doctor who was taking his
blood pressure. Packer and Tiny stood nearby, at the request of the
doctor. With five people present, the front office was crowded.

"Fifth Circuit just denied," Adam said solemnly. "We're on our way
to the Supreme Court."

"Not exactly the promised land," Sam said, stiU staring at the doctor.

"I'm optimistic," Adam said halfheartedly for the benefit of Packer.

The doctor quickly placed his instruments in his bag. "That's it," he
said heading for the door.

"So I'm healthy enough to die?" Sam asked.

The doctor opened the door and left, followed by Packer and Tiny.

452 JOHN GRISHAM

Sam stood and stretched his back, then began pacing slowly across the
room. The shoes sHpped on his heels and affected his stride. "Are you
nervous?" he asked with a nasty smile.

"Of course. And I guess you're not."

"The dying cannot be worse than the waiting. Hell, I'm ready. I'd
like to get it over with."

Adam almost said something trite about their reasonable chances in
the Supreme Court, but he was not in the mood to be rebuked. Sam
paced and smoked and was not in a talkative mood. Adam, typically, got
busy with the telephone. He called Goodman and Kerry, but their con-
versations were brief. There was little to say, and no optimism whatso-
ever.

COLONEL NUGENT stood on the porch of the Visitors Center and
asked for quiet. Assembled before him on the lawn was the small army of
reporters and journaHsts, all anxiously awaiting the lottery. Next to him
on a table was a tin bucket. Each member of the press wore an orange,
numbered button dispensed by the prison administration as credentials.
The mob was unusually quiet.

"According to prison regulations, there are eight seats allotted to
members of the press," Nugent explained slowly, his words carrying
almost to the ffont gate. He was basking in the spotlight. "One seat is
allotted to the AP, one to the UPI, and one to the Mississippi Network.
That leaves five to be selected at random. I'll pull five numbers from this
bucket, and if one of them corresponds to your credentials, then it's your
lucky day. Any questions?"

Several dozen reporters suddenly had no questions. Many of them
puUed at their orange badges to check their numbers. A ripple of excite-
ment went through the group. Nugent dramatically reached into the
bucket and pulled out a slip of paper. "Number four-eight-four-three,"
he announced, with aU the skill of a seasoned bingo caller.

"Here you go," an excited young man called back, tugging at his
lucky badge.

"Your name?" Nugent yelled.

"Edwin King, with the Arkansas Gazette."

A deputy warden next to Nugent wrote down the name and paper.
Edwin King was admired by his colleagues.

Nugent quickly called the other four numbers and completed the
pool. A noticeable ebb of despair rolled through the group as the last
number was called out. The losers were crushed. "At exactly eleven, two
vans will pull up over there." Nugent pointed to the main drive. "The
eight witnesses must be present and ready. You will be driven to the

THE CHAMBER 453

Maximum Security Unit to witness the execution. No cameras or re-
corders of any type. You will be searched once you arrive there. Some-
time around twelve-thirty, you will reboard the vans and return to this
point. A press conference will then be held in the main hall of the new
administration building, which will be opened at 9 p.m. for your conve-
nience. Any questions?"

"How many people will witness the execution?" someone asked.

"There will be approximately thirteen or fourteen people in the wit-
ness room. And in the Chamber Room, there will be myself, one minis-
ter, one doctor, the state executioner, the attorney for the prison, and
two guards."

"Will the victims' family witness the execution?"

"Yes. Mr. Elliot Kramer, the grandfather, is scheduled to be a wit-
ness."

"How about the governor?"

"By statute, the governor has two seats in the witness room at his
discretion. One of those seats will go to Mr. Kramer. I have not been
told whether the governor will be here."

"What about Mr. Cayhall's family?"

"No. None of his relatives will witness the execution."

Nugent had opened a can of worms. The questions were popping up
everywhere, and he had things to do. "No more questions. Thank you,"
he said, and walked off the porch.

DONNIE CAYHALL arrived for his last visit a few minutes before six.
He was led straight to the front office, where he found his well-dressed
brother laughing with Adam Hall. Sam introduced the two.

Adam had carefully avoided Sam's brother until now. Donnie, as it
turned out, was clean and neat, well groomed and dressed sensibly. He
also resembled Sam, now that Sam had shaved, cut his hair, and shed the
red jumpsuit. They were the same height, and though Donnie was not
overweight, Sam was much thinner.

Donnie was clearly not the hick Adam had feared. He was genuinely
happy to meet Adam and proud of the fact that he was a lawyer. He was
a pleasant man with an easy smile, good teeth, but very sad eyes at the
moment. "What's it look like?" he asked after a few minutes of small
talk. He was referring to the appeals.

"It's all in the Supreme Court."

"So there's still hope?"

Sam snorted at this suggestion.

"A little," Adam said, very much resigned to fate.

There was a long pause as Adam and Donnie searched for less sensitive

454 JOHN GRISHAM

matters to discuss. Sam really didn't care. He sat calmly in a chair, legs
crossed, pufifmg away. His mind was occupied with things they couldn't
imagine.

"I stopped by Albert's today," Donnie said.

Sam's gaze never left the floor. "Ho"w's his prostate?"

"I don't know. He thought you were already dead."

"That's my brother."

"I also saMA Aunt Finnie."

"I thought she was already dead," Sam said with a smile.

"Almost. She's ninety-one. Just all tore up over what's happened to
you. Said you were always her favorite nephew."

"She couldn't stand me, and I couldn't stand her. HeU, I didn't see
her for five years before I came here."

"WeU, she's just plain crushed over this."

"She'U get over it."

Sam's face suddenly broke into a wide smile, and he started laughing.
"Remember the time we watched her go to the outhouse behind
Grandmother's, then peppered it with rocks? She came out screaming
and crying."

Donnie suddenly remembered, and began to shake with laughter.
"Yeah, it had a tin roof," he said between breaths, "and every rock
sounded Hke a bomb going off."

"Yeah, it was me and you and Albert. You couldn't have been four
years old."

"I remember though."

The story grew^ and the laughter was contagious. Adam caught himself
chuckling at the sight of these two old men laughing like boys. The one
about Aunt Finnie and the outhouse led to one about her husband,
Uncle Garland, who was mean and crippled, and the laughs continued.

SAM'S LAST MEAL was a deliberate snub at the fmgerless cooks in the
kitchen and the uninspired rations they'd tormented him with for nine
and a half years. He requested something that was Hght, came from a
carton, and could be found with ease. He had often marveled at his
predecessors who'd ordered seven-course dinners — steaks and lobster
and cheesecake. Buster Moac had consumed two dozen raw oysters,
then a Greek salad, then a large rib eye and a few other courses. He'd
never understood how they summoned such appetites only hours before
death.

He wasn't the least bit hungry when Nugent knocked on the door at
seven-thirty. Behind him was Packer, and behind Packer was a trustee
holding a tray. In the center of the tray was a large bowl with three

THE CHAMBER 455

Eskimo Pies in it, and to the side was a small thermos of French Market
coffee, Sam's favorite. The tray was placed on the desk.

"Not much of a dinner, Sam," Nugent said.

"Can I enjoy it in peace, or will you stand there and pester me with
your idiot talk?"

Nugent stiffened and glared at Adam. "We'll come back in an hour.
At that time, your guest must leave, and we'll return you to the Observa-
tion CeU. Okay?"

"Just leave," Sam said, sitting at the desk.

As soon as they were gone, Donnie said, "Damn, Sam, why didn't
you order something we could enjoy? What kind of a last meal is this?"

"It's my last meal. When your time comes, order what you want." He
picked up a fork and carefuDy scraped the vanilla ice cream and choco-
late covering off the stick. He took a large bite, then slowly poured the
coffee into the cup. It was dark and strong with a rich aroma.

Donnie and Adam sat in the chairs along a wall, watching Sam's back
as he slowly ate his last meal.

THEY'D BEEN ARRIVING since five o'clock. They came from all
over the state, all driving alone, all riding in big four-door cars of varied
colors with elaborate seals and emblems and markings on the doors
and fenders. Some had racks of emergency lights across the roof. Some
had shotguns mounted on the screens above the front seats. All had tall
antennas swinging in the wind.

They were the sheriffs, each elected in his own county to protect the
citizenry from lawlessness. Most had served for many years, and most had
already taken part in the unrecorded ritual of the execution dinner.

A cook named Miss Mazola prepared the feast, and the menu never
varied. She fried large chickens in animal fat. She cooked black-eyed
peas in ham hocks. And she made real buttermilk biscuits the size of
small saucers. Her kitchen was in the rear of a small cafeteria near the
main administration building. The food was always served at seven, re-
gardless of how many sheriffs were present.

Tonight's crowd would be the largest since Teddy Doyle Meeks was
put to rest in 1982. Miss Mazola anticipated this because she read the
papers and everybody knew about Sam Cayhall. She expected at least
fifty sheriffs.

They were waved through the front gates like dignitaries, and they
parked haphazardly around the cafeteria. For the most part they were big
men, with earnest stomachs and voracious appetites. They were fam-
ished after the long drive.

Their banter was light over dinner. They ate like hogs, then retired

456 JOHN GRISHAM

outside to the front of the building where they sat on the hoods of their
cars and watched it grow dark. They picked chicken from their teeth and
bragged on Miss Mazola's cooking. They Hstened to their radios squawk,
as if the news of Cayhall's death would be transmitted at any moment.
They talked about other executions and heinous crimes back home, and
about local boys on the Row. Damned gas chamber wasn't used enough.

They stared in amazement at the hundreds of demonstrators near the
highway in front of them. They picked their teeth some more, then
went back inside for chocolate cake.

It was a wonderful night for law enforcement.

FORTY-NINE

DARKNESS BROUGHT an eerie quiet to the highway m front
of Parchman. The Klansmen, not a single one of whom had
considered leaving after Sam asked them to, sat in folding chairs
and on the trampled grass, and waited. The skinheads and like-minded
brethren who'd roasted in the August sun sat in small groups and drank
ice water. The nuns and other activists had been joined by a contingent
from Amnesty International. They lit candles, said prayers, hummed
songs. They tried to keep their distance from the hate groups. Pick any
other day, another execution, another inmate, and those same hateful
people would be screaming for blood.

The calm was broken momentarily when a pickup load of teenagers
slowed near the front entrance. They suddenly began shouting loudly
and in unison, "Gas his ass! Gas his ass! Gas his ass!" The truck squealed
tires and sped away. Some of the Klansmen jumped to their feet, ready
for battle, but the kids were gone, never to return.

The imposing presence of the highway patrol kept matters under con-
trol. The troopers stood about in groups, watching the traffic, keeping
close watch on the Klansmen and the skinheads. A helicopter made its
rounds above.

GOODMAN FINALLY CALLED a halt to the market analysis. In five
long days, they had logged over two thousand calls. He paid the students,
confiscated the cellular phones, and thanked them profusely. None of
them seemed wiUing to throw in the towel, so they walked with him to

458 JOHN GRISHAM

the capitol where another candlelight vigil was under w^ay on the front
steps. The governor was still in his office on the second floor.

One of the students volunteered to take a phone to John Bryan Glass,
who was across the street at the Mississippi Supreme Court. Goodman
called him, then called Kerry, then called Joshua Caldwell, an old friend
who'd agreed to wait at the Death Clerk's desk in Washington. Good-
man had everyone in place. All the phones were working. He called
Adam. Sam was fmishing his last meal, Adam said, and didn't wish to
talk to Goodman. But he did want to say thanks for everything.

WHEN THE COFFEE and ice cream were gone, Sam stood and
stretched his legs. Donnie had been quiet for a long time. He was suffer-
ing and ready to go. Nugent would come soon, and he wanted to say
good-bye now.

There was a spot where Sam had spilled ice cream on his new shirt,
and Donnie tried to remove it with a cloth napkin. "It's not that impor-
tant," Sam said, watching his brother.

Donnie kept wiping. "Yeah, you're right. I'd better go now, Sam.
They'll be here in a minute."

The two men embraced for a long time, patting each other gently on
the backs. "I'm so sorry, Sam," Donnie said, his voice shaking. "I'm so
sorry."

They pulled apart, still clutching each other's shoulders, both men
with moist eyes but no tears. They would not dare cry before each other.
"You take care," Sam said.

"You too. Say a prayer, Sam, okay?"

"I will. Thanks for everything. You're the only one who cared."

Donnie bit his lip and hid his eyes from Sam. He shook hands with
Adam, but could not utter a word. He walked behind Sam to the door,
then left them.

"No word from the Supreme Court?" Sam asked out of nowhere, as if
he suddenly believed there was a chance.

"No," Adam said sadly.

He sat on the desk, his feet swinging beneath him. "I really want this
to be over, Adam," he said, each word carefuUy measured. "This is
cruel."

Adam could think of nothing to say.

"In China, they sneak up behind you and put a bullet through your
head. No last bowl of rice. No farewells. No waiting. Not a bad idea."

Adam looked at his watch for the millionth time in the past hour.
Since noon, there had been gaps when hours seemed to vanish, then

THE CHAMBER 459

suddenly time would stop. It would fly, then it would crawl. Someone
knocked on the door. "Come in," Sam said faintly.

The Reverend Ralph GrifFm entered and closed the door. He'd met
with Sam twice during the day, and was obviously taking this hard. It
was his first execution, and he'd already decided it would be his last. His
cousin in the state senate would have to fmd him another job. He
nodded at Adam and sat by Sam on the desk. It was almost nine o'clock.

"Colonel Nugent's out there, Sam. He said he's waiting on you."

"Well, then, let's not go out. Let's just sit here."

"Suits me."

"You know, preacher, my heart has been touched these past few days
in ways I never dreamed possible. But, for the life of me, I hate that jerk
out there. And I can't overcome it."

"Hate's an awful thing, Sam."

"I know. But I can't help it."

"I don't particularly like him either, to be honest."

Sam grinned at the minister and put his arm around him. The voices
outside grew louder, and Nugent barged into the room. "Sam, it's time
to go back to the Observation Cell," he said.

Adam stood, his knees weak with fear, his stomach in knots, his heart
racing wildly. Sam, however, was unruffled. He jumped from the desk.
"Let's go," he said.

They follo"wed Nugent from the front oflfice into the narrow hallway
where some of the largest guards at Parchman were waiting along the
wall. Sam took Adam by the hand, and they walked slowly together with
the reverend trailing behind.

Adam squeezed his grandfather's hand, and ignored the faces as they
walked by. They went through the center of the Row, through two sets
of doors, then through the bars at the end of Tier A. The tier door
closed behind them, and they followed Nugent past the cells.

Sam glanced at the faces of the men he'd known so well. He winked
at Hank Henshaw, nodded bravely at J. B. Gullitt who had tears in his
eyes, smiled at Stock Turner. They were all leaning through the bars,
heads hung low, fear stamped all over their faces. Sam gave them his
bravest look.

Nugent stopped at the last cell and waited for the door to be opened
from the end of the tier. It clicked loudly, then rolled open. Sam, Adam,
and Ralph entered, and Nugent gave the signal to close the door.

The cell was dark, the solitary light and television both off. Sam sat on
the bed between Adam and the reverend. He leaned on his elbows with
his head hanging low.

Nugent watched them for a moment, but could think of nothing to

460 JOHN GRISHAM

say. He'd be back in a couple of hours, at eleven, to take Sam to the
Isolation Room. They all knew he was coming back. It seemed too
cruel at this moment to teU Sam he was leaving, but that he w^ould
return. So he stepped away and left through the tier door v^here his
guards w^ere waiting and watching in the semi darkness. Nugent walked
to the Isolation Room where a foldaway cot had been installed for the
prisoner's last hour. He walked through the small room, and stepped
into the Chamber Room where final preparations were being made.

The state executioner w^as busy and very much in control. He was a
short, wiry man named Bill Monday. He had nine fingers and would
earn five hundred dollars for his services if the execution took place. By
statute, he was appointed by the governor. He was in a tiny closet
know^n simply as the chemical room, less than five feet from the gas
chamber. He was studying a checkUst on a cHpboard. Before him on the
counter was a one-pound can of sodium cyanide pellets, a nine-pound
bottle of sulfuric acid, a one-pound container of caustic acid, a fifty-
pound steel bottle of anhydrous ammonia, and a five-gaUon container of
distilled water. To his side on another, smaller counter were three gas
masks, three pair of rubber gloves, a funnel, hand soap, hand towels, and
a mop. Between the two counters was an acid mixing pot mounted on a
two-inch pipe that ran into the floor, under the wall, and resurfaced next
to the chamber near the levers.

Monday had three checklists, actually. One contained instructions for
mixing the chemicals: the sulfuric acid and distilled water would be
mixed to obtain approximately a 41 percent concentration; the caustic
soda solution was made by dissolving one pound of caustic acid in two
and a half gallons of water; and there were a couple of other brews that
had to be mixed to clean the chamber after the execution. One Hst
included all the necessary chemicals and suppKes. The third Hst was the
procedure to follow during an actual execution.

Nugent spoke to Monday; aU was proceeding as planned. One of
Monday's assistants was smearing petroleum jelly around the edges of the
chamber's windows. A plainclothed member of the execution team was
checking the belts and straps on the wooden chair. The doctor was
fiddling with his EKG monitor. The door was open to the outside,
where an ambulance was already parked.

Nugent glanced at the checklists once more, though he'd memorized
them long ago. In fact, he'd even rewritten one other checklist, a sug-
gested chart to record the execution. The chart would be used by Nu-
gent, Monday, and Monday's assistant. It was a numbered, chronological
Ust of the events of the execution: water and acid mixed, prisoner enters
chamber, chamber door locked, sodium cyanide enters acid, gas strikes

THE CHAMBER 461

prisoner's face, prisoner apparently unconscious, prisoner certainly un-
conscious, movements of prisoner's body, last visible movement, heart
stopped, respiration stopped, exhaust valve opened, drain valves opened,
air valve opened, chamber door opened, prisoner removed from cham-
ber, prisoner pronounced dead. Beside each was a blank line to record
the time elapsed from the prior event.

And there was an execution list, a chart of the twenty-nine steps to be
taken to begin and complete the task. Of course, the execution list had
an appendix, a list of the fifteen things to do in the step-down, the last of
which was to place the prisoner in the ambulance.

Nugent knew every step on every list. He knew how to mix the
chemicals, how to open the valves, how long to leave them open, and
how to close them. He knew it aU.

He stepped outside to speak to the ambulance driver and get some air,
then he walked back through the Isolation Room to Tier A. Like every-
one else, he was waiting for the damned Supreme Court to rule one way
or the other.

He sent the two tallest guards onto the tier to close the windows along
the top of the outside wall. Like the building, the windows had been
there for thirty-six years and they did not shut quietly. The guards
pushed them up until they slammed, each one echoing along the tier.
Thirty-five windows in all, every inmate knew the exact number, and
with each closing the tier became darker and quieter.

The guards finally finished and left. The Row was now locked down
— every inmate in his cell, all doors secured, all windows closed.

Sam had begun shaking with the closing of the windows. His head
dropped even lower. Adam placed an arm around his frail shoulders.

"I always liked those windows," Sam said, his voice low and hoarse. A
squad of guards stood less than fifteen feet away, peering through the tier
door like kids at the zoo, and Sam didn't want his words to be heard. It
was hard to imagine Sam liking anything about this place. "Used to,
when it came a big rain the water would splash on the windows, and
some of it would make it inside and trickle down to the floor. I always
liked the rain. And the moon. Sometimes, if the clouds were gone, I
could stand just right in my cell and catch a glimpse of the moon
through those windows. I always wondered why they didn't have more
windows around here. I mean, hell, sorry preacher, but if they're deter-
mined to keep you in a cell all day, why shouldn't you be able to see
outdoors? I never understood that. I guess I never understood a lot of
things. Oh well." His voice trailed off, and he didn't speak again for a
while.

462 JOHN GRISHAM

From the darkness came the mellow tenor of Preacher Boy singing
"Just a Closer Walk with Thee." It was quite pretty.

"Just a closer walk with Thee,

Grant it, Jesus, is my plea.

Daily walking close to Thee . . ."

"Quiet!" a guard yelled.

"Leave him alone!" Sam yelled back, startling both Adam and Ralph.
"Sing it. Randy," Sam said just loud enough to be heard next door.
Preacher Boy took his time, his feeHngs obviously wounded, then began
again.

A door slammed somewhere, and Sam jumped. Adam squeezed his
shoulder, and he settled down. His eyes were lost somewhere in the
darkness of the floor.

"I take it Lee wouldn't come," he said, his words haunted.

Adam thought for a second, and decided to tell the truth. "I don't
know where she is. I haven't talked to her in ten days."

"Thought she was in a rehab clinic."

"I think she is too, but I just don't know where. I'm sorry. I tried
everything to fmd her."

"I've thought about her a lot these past days. Please tell her."

"I wiU." If Adam saw her again, he would struggle to keep from
choking her.

"And I've thought a lot about Eddie."

"Look, Sam, we don't have long. Let's talk about pleasant things,
okay?"

"I want you to forgive me for what I did to Eddie."

"I've already forgiven you, Sam. It's taken care of Carmen and I both
forgive you."

Ralph lowered his head next to Sam's, and said, "Perhaps there are
some others we should think about too, Sam."

"Maybe later," Sam said.

The tier door opened at the far end of the hallway, and footsteps
hurried toward them. Lucas Mann, with a guard behind him, stopped at
the last cell and looked at the three shadowy figures huddled together on
the bed. "Adam, you have a phone caU," he said nervously. "In the front
office."

The three shadowy figures stiffened together. Adam jumped to his
feet, and without a word stepped from the cell as the door opened. His
beUy churned violently as he half-ran down the tier. "Give 'em hell,
Adam," J. B. Gullitt said as he raced by.

THE CHAMBER 463

"Who is it?" Adam asked Lucas Mann, who was beside him, step for
step.

"Garner Goodman."

They weaved through the center of MSU and hurried to the front
office. The receiver was lying on the desk. Adam grabbed it and sat on
the desk. "Garner, this is Adam."

"I'm at the capitol, Adam, in the rotunda outside the governor's
office. The Supreme Court just denied all of our cert petitions. There's
nothing left up there."

Adam closed his eyes and paused. "Well, I guess that's the end of
that," he said, and looked at Lucas Mann. Lucas frowned and dropped
his head.

"Sit tight. The governor's about to make an announcement. I'll call
you in five minutes." Goodman was gone.

Adam hung up the phone and stared at it. "The Supreme Court
turned down everything," he reported to Mann. "The governor's mak-
ing a statement. He'll call back in a minute."

Mann sat down. "I'm sorry, Adam. Very sorry. How's Sam holding
up?"

"Sam is taking this much better than I am, I think."

"It's strange, isn't it? This is my fifth one, and I'm always amazed at
how calmly they go. They give up when it gets dark. They have their last
meal, say good-bye to their families, and become oddly placid about the
whole thing. Me, I'd be kicking and screaming and crying. It would take
twenty men to drag me out of the Observation Cell."

Adam managed a quick smile, then noticed an open shoe box on the
desk. It was lined with aluminum foil with a few broken cookies in the
bottom. It had not been there when they left an hour earlier. "What's
that?" he asked, not reaUy curious.

"Those are the execution cookies."

"The execution cookies?"

"Yeah, this sweet little lady who lives down the road bakes them every
time there's an execution."

"Why?"

"I don't know. In fact, I have no idea why she does it."

"Who eats them?" Adam asked, looking at the remaining cookies and
crumbs as if they were poison.

"The guards and trustees."

Adam shook his head. He had too much on his mind to analyze the
purpose of a batch of execution cookies.

464 JOHN GRISHAM

FOR THE OCCASION, David McAlHster changed into a dark navy
suit, freshly starched white shirt, and dark burgundy tie. He combed and
sprayed his hair, brushed his teeth, then walked into his ofifice from a side
door. Mona Stark was crunching numbers.

"The calls finally stopped," she said, somewhat reHeved.

"I don't want to hear it," McAllister said, checking his tie and teeth in
a mirror. "Let's go."

He opened the door and stepped into the foyer where two bodyguards
met him. They flanked him as he walked into the rotunda where bright
lights were waiting. A throng of reporters and cameras pressed forward to
hear the announcement. He stepped to a makeshift stand with a dozen
microphones wedged together. He grimaced at the Hghts, waited for
quiet, then spoke.

"The Supreme Court of the United States has just denied the last
appeals from Sam CayhaU," he said dramatically, as if the reporters
hadn't already heard this. Another pause as the cameras cHcked and the
microphones waited. "And so, after three jury trials, after nine years of
appeals through every court available under our Constitution, after hav-
ing the case reviewed by no less than forty-seven judges, justice has
finally arrived for Sam Cayhall. His crime was committed twenty-three
years ago. Justice may be slow, but it still works. I have been called upon
by many people to pardon Mr. Cayhall, but I cannot do so. I cannot
overrule the wisdom of the jury that sentenced him, nor can I impose
my judgment upon that of our distinguished courts. Neither am I willing
to go against the wishes of my friends the Kramers." Another pause. He
spoke without notes, and it was immediately obvious he'd worked on
these remarks for a long time. "It is my fervent hope that the execution
of Sam CayhaU will help erase a painful chapter in our state's tortured
history. I call upon all Mississippians to come together fi-om this sad
night forward, and work for equaHty. May God have mercy on his soul."

He backed away as the questions flew. The bodyguards opened a side
door, and he was gone. They darted down the stairs and out the north
entrance \vhere a car was waiting. A mile away, a helicopter was also
waiting.

Goodman w^alked outside and stood by an old cannon, aimed for
some reason at the tall buildings downtown. Below him, at the foot of
the front steps, a large group of protestors held candles. He called Adam
with the news, then he w^alked through the people and the candles and
left the capitol grounds. A hymn started as he crossed the street, and for
two blocks it slowly faded away. He drifted for a while, then walked
toward Hez Kerry's office.

FIFTY

THE WALK BACK to the Observation Cell was much longer
than before. Adam made it alone, by now on familiar terrain.
Lucas Mann disappeared somew^here in the labyrinth of the
Row.

As Adam waited before a heavy barred door in the center of the
building, he was immediately aware of two things. First, there were
many more people hanging around now — more guards, more strangers
with plastic badges and guns on their hips, more stern-faced men with
short-sleeved shirts and polyester ties. This was a happening, a singular
phenomenon too thrilling to be missed. Adam speculated that any
prison employee with enough pull and enough clout just had to be on
the Row when Sam's death sentence was carried out.

The second thing he realized was that his shirt was soaked and the
coUar was sticking to his neck. He loosened his tie as the door clicked
loudly then slid open under the hum of a hidden electric motor. A guard
somewhere in the maze of concrete walls and windows and bars was
watching and punching the right buttons. He stepped through, still pull-
ing on the knot of his tie and the button under it, and walked to the next
barrier, a wall of bars leading to Tier A. He patted his forehead, but
there was no sweat. He filled his lungs with muggy, dank air.

With the windows shut, the tier was now suffocating. Another loud
click, another electric hum, and he stepped into the thin hallway, which
Sam had told him was seven and a half feet wide. Three dingy sets of
fluorescent bulbs cast dim shadows on the ceiling and floor. He pushed

466 JOHN GRISHAM

his heavy feet past the dark cells, all filled with brutal murderers, each
one now praying or meditating, a couple even crying.

"Good news, Adam?" J. B. Gullitt pleaded from the darkness.

Adam didn't answer. Still walking, he glanced up at the windows with
their various shades of paint splattered around the ancient panes, and was
struck by the question of ho^v many lawyers before him had made this
final walk from the front office to the Observation Cell to inform a
dying man that the last thin shred of hope was no^v gone. This place had
a rich history of executions, and so he concluded that many others had
suffered along this trail. Garner Goodman himself had carried the final
news to Maynard Tole, and this gave Adam a much needed shot of
strength.

He ignored the curious stares of the small mob standing and gawking
at him at the end of the tier. He stopped at the last cell, waited, and the
door obediently opened.

Sam and the reverend were still sitting low on the bed, heads nearly
touching in the darkness, whispering. They looked up at Adam, who sat
next to Sam and placed his arm around his shoulders, shoulders that now
seemed even frailer. "The Supreme Court just denied everything," he
said very softly, his voice on the verge of cracking. The reverend exhaled
a painful moan. Sam nodded as if this was certainly expected. "And the
governor just denied clemency."

Sam tried to raise his shoulders bravely, but power failed him. He
slumped even lower.

"Lord have mercy," Ralph Griffin said.

"Then it's all over," Sam said.

"There's nothing left," Adam whispered.

Excited murmurings could be heard firom the death squad squeezed
together at the end of the tier. This thing would happen after all. A door
slammed somewhere behind them, in the direction of the chamber, and
Sam's knees jerked together.

He was silent for a moment — one minute or fifteen, Adam couldn't
tell. The clock was still lurching and stopping.

"I guess \ve oughta pray now, preacher," Sam said.

"I reckon so. We've waited long enough."

"How do you wanna do it?"

"Well, Sam, just exactly what do you want to pray about?"

Sam pondered this for a moment, then said, "I'd Hke to make sure
God's not angry with me when I die."

"Good idea. And why do you think God might be angry with you?"

"Pretty obvious, isn't it?"

THE CHAMBER 467

Ralph rubbed his hands together. "I guess the best way to do this is to
confess your sins, and ask God to forgive you."

"AU of them?"

"You don't have to list them all, just ask God to forgive everything."

"Sort of a blanket repentance."

"Yeah, that's it. And it'll work, if you're serious."

"I'm serious as hell."

"Do you believe in hell, Sam?"

"I do."

"Do you believe in heaven?"

"I do."

"Do you believe that all Christians go to heaven?"

Sam thought about this for a long time, then nodded slightly before
asking, "Do you?"

"Yes, Sam. I do."

"Then I'll take your word for it."

"Good. Trust me on this one, okay?"

"It seems too easy, you know. I just say a quick prayer, and every-
thing's forgiven."

"Why does that bother you?"

"Because I've done some bad things, preacher."

"We've all done bad things. Our God is a God of infinite love."

"You haven't done what I've done."

"Will you feel better if you talk about it?"

"Yeah, I won't ever feel right unless I talk about it."

"I'm here, Sam."

"Should I leave for a minute?" Adam asked. Sam clutched his knee.
"No."

"We don't have a lot of time, Sam," Ralph said, glancing through the
bars.

Sam took a deep breath, and spoke in a low monotone, careful that
only Adam and Ralph could hear. "I killed Joe Lincoln in cold blood.
I've already said I was sorry."

Ralph was mumbling something to himself as he listened. He was
already in prayer.

"And I helped my brothers kiU those two men who murdered our
father. Frankly, I've never felt bad about it until now. Human life seems
a whole lot more valuable these days. I was wrong. And I took part in a
lynching when 1 was fifteen or sixteen. I was just part of a mob, and I
probably couldn't have stopped it if I'd tried. But I didn't try, and I feel
guilty about it."

468 JOHN GRISHAM

Sam stopped. Adam held his breath and hoped the confessional was
over. Ralph waited and waited, and finally asked, "Is that it, Sam?"

"No. There's one more."

Adam closed his eyes and braced for it. He w^as dizzy and wanted to
vomit.

"There was another lynching. A boy named Cletus. I can't remember
his last name. A Klan lynching. I was eighteen. That's all I can say."

This nightmare will never end, Adam thought.

Sam breathed deeply and was silent for several minutes. Ralph was
praying hard. Adam just 'waited.

"And I didn't kill those Kramer boys," Sam said, his voice shaking. "I
had no business being there, and I was wrong to be involved in that
mess. I've regretted it for many years, aU of it. It was wrong to be in the
Klan, hating everybody and planting bombs. But I didn't kill those boys.
There was no intent to harm anyone. That bomb was supposed to go oflf
in the middle of the night when no one would be anywhere near it.
That's what I truly beheved. But it was wired by someone else, not me. I
was just a lookout, a driver, a flunky. This other person rigged the bomb
to go off much later than I thought. I've never known for sure if he
intended to kiU anyone, but I suspect he did."

Adam heard the words, received them, absorbed them, but was too
stunned to move.

"But I could' ve stopped it. And that makes me guilty. Those little
boys would be alive today if I had acted differently after the bomb was
planted. Their blood is on my hands, and I've grieved over this for many
years."

Ralph gently placed a hand on the back of Sam's head. "Pray with
me, Sam." Sam covered his eyes with both hands and rested his elbows
on his knees.

"Do you beHeve Jesus Christ was the son of God; that he came to this
earth, born of a virgin, lived a sinless life, was persecuted, and died on
the cross so that we might have eternal salvation? Do you believe this,
Sam?"

"Yes," he ^vhispered.

"And that he arose from the grave and ascended into heaven?"

"Yes."

"And that through him all of your sins are forgiven? All the terrible
things that burden your heart are no"w forgiven. Do you believe this,
Sam?"

"Yes, yes."

Ralph released Sam's head, and wiped tears from his eyes. Sam didn't
move, but his shoulders were shaking. Adam squeezed him even tighter.

THE CHAMBER 469

Randy Dupree started whistling another stanza of "Just a Closer Walk
with Thee." His notes were clear and precise, and they echoed nicely
along the tier.

"Preacher," Sam said as his back stiffened, "will those Uttle Kramer
boys be in heaven?"

"Yes."

"But they were Jews."

"All children go to heaven, Sam."

"Will I see them up there?"

"I don't know. There's a lot about heaven we don't know. But the
Bible promises that there will be no sorrow when we get there."

"Good. Then I hope I see them."

The unmistakable voice of Colonel Nugent broke the calm. The tier
door clanged, rattled, and opened. He marched five feet to the door of
the Observation Cell. Six guards were behind him. "Sam, it's time to go
to the Isolation Room," he said. "It's eleven o'clock."

The three men stood, side by side. The cell door opened, and Sam
stepped out. He smiled at Nugent, then he turned and hugged the
reverend. "Thanks," he said.

"I love you, brother!" Randy Dupree yelled from his cell, not ten feet
away.

Sam looked at Nugent, and asked, "Could I say good-bye to my
friends?"

A deviation. The manual plainly said that the prisoner was to be taken
directly from the Observation Cell to the Isolation Room, with nothing
being mentioned about a final promenade down the tier. Nugent was
dumbstruck, but after a few seconds raUied nicely. "Sure, but make it
quick."

Sam took a few steps and clasped Randy's hands through the bars.
Then he stepped to the next cell and shook hands with Harry Ross
Scott.

Ralph Griffin eased past the guards and left the tier. He found a dark
corner and wept hke a child. He would not see Sam again. Adam stood
in the door of the cell, near Nugent, and together they watched Sam
work his way down the hallway, stopping at each cell, whispering some-
thing to each inmate. He spent the most time with J. B. GuUitt, whose
sobs could be heard.

Then he turned and walked bravely back to them, counting steps as
he went, smiling at his pals along the way. He took Adam by the hand.
"Let's go," he said to Nugent.

There were so damned many guards packed together at the end of the
tier that it was a tight squeeze just to get by them. Nugent went first,

470 JOHN GRISHAM

then Sam and Adam. The mass of human congestion added several de-
grees to the temperature and several layers to the stufiy air. The show of
force was necessary, of course, to subdue a reluctant prisoner, or perhaps
to scare one into submission. It seemed awfully silly with a Uttle old man
Hke Sam Cayhall.

The walk from one room to another took only seconds, a distance of
twenty feet, but Adam winced with every painful step. Through the
human tunnel of armed guards, through the heavy steel door, into the
small room. The door on the opposite wall was shut. It led to the
chamber.

A flimsy cot had been hauled in for the occasion. Adam and Sam sat
on it. Nugent closed the door, and knelt before them. The three of them
were alone. Adam again placed his arm around Sam's shoulders.

Nugent was wearing a terribly pained expression. He placed a hand
on Sam's knee, and said, "Sam, we're gonna get through this together.
Now — "

"You goofy fool," Adam blurted, amazed at this remarkable utterance.

"He can't help it," Sam said helpfully to Adam. "He's just stupid. He
didn't even realize it."

Nugent felt the sharp rebuke, and tried to think of something proper
to say. "I'm just trying to get through this, okay?" he said to Adam.

"Why don't you just leave?" Adam said.

"You know something, Nugent?" Sam asked. "I've read tons of law
books. And I've read pages and pages of prison regulations. And no-
where have I read anything that requires me to spend my last hour with
you. No law, statute, regulation, nothing."

"Just get the heU out of here," Adam said, ready to strike if necessary.

Nugent jumped to his feet. "The doctor wiU enter through that door
at eleven-forty. He'U stick a stethoscope to your chest, then leave. At
eleven fifty-five, I will enter, also through that door. At that time, we'll
go into the Chamber Room. Any questions?"

"No. Leave," Adam said, waving at the door. Nugent made a quick
exit.

Suddenly, they were alone. With an hour to go.

TWO IDENTICAL PRISON VANS rolled to a stop in front of the
Visitors Center, and were boarded by the eight lucky reporters and one
lone sheriff. The law allowed, but did not require, the sheriff of the
county where the crime was committed to witness the execution.

The man who was the sheriff of Washington County in 1 967 had
been dead for fifteen years, but the current sheriff was not about to miss
this event. He had informed Lucas Mann earlier in the day that he fuUy

THE CHAMBER 471

intended to invoke the power of the law. Said he felt like he owed it to
the people of GreenviUe and Washington County.

Mr. Elliot Kramer was not present at Parchman. He had planned the
trip for years, but his doctor intervened at the last moment. His heart
was weak and it was just too risky. Ruth Kramer had never thought
seriously of witnessing the execution. She was at home in Memphis,
sitting with friends, waiting for it to end.

There would be no members of the victims' family present to witness
the killing of Sam Cayhall.

The vans were heavily photographed and filmed as they left and disap-
peared on the main drive. Five minutes later, they stopped at the gates of
MSU. Everyone was asked to step outside, where they were checked for
cameras and recorders. They reboarded the vans and were cleared
through the gates. The vans drove through the grass along the front of
MSU, then around the bullpens on the west end, then stopped very near
the ambulance.

Nugent himself was waiting. The reporters stepped from the vans and
instinctively began looking wildly around, trying to grasp it all to record
later. They were just outside a square red-brick building that was some-
how attached to the low, flat structure that was MSU. The little building
had two doors. One was closed, the other was waiting for them.

Nugent was not in the mood for nosy reporters. He hurriedly guided
them through the open door. They stepped into a small room where two
rows of folding chairs were waiting, facing an ominous panel of black
drapes.

"Take a seat please," he said rudely. He counted eight reporters, one
sheriff. Three seats were empty. "It is now eleven-ten," he said dramati-
cally. "The prisoner is in the Isolation Room. Before you here, on the
other side of these curtains, is the Chamber Room. He will be brought
in at five minutes before twelve, strapped in, the door locked. The
curtains will be opened at exactly midnight, and when you see the
chamber the prisoner will already be inside it, less than two feet from the
windows. You wiU see only the back of his head. I didn't design this,
okay? It should take about ten minutes before he is pronounced dead, at
which time the curtains will be closed and you'll return to the vans.
You'll have a long wait, and I'm sorry this room has no air conditioning.
When the curtains open, things wiU happen quickly. Any questions?"

"Have you talked to the prisoner?"

"Yes."

"How's he holding up?"

"I'm not getting into all that. A press conference is planned at one,
and I'll answer those questions then. Right now I'm busy." Nugent left

472 JOHN GRISHAM

the witness room and slammed the door behind him. He walked quickly
around the corner, and entered the Chamber Room.

"WE HAVE LESS than an hour. What would you Hke to talk about?"
Sam asked.

"Oh, lots of things. Most of it unpleasant, though."

"It's kinda hard to have an enjoyable conversation at this point, you
know."

"What are you thinking right now, Sam? What's going through your
mind?"

"Everything."

"What are you afiraid of?"

"The smell of the gas. Whether or not it's painful. I don't want to
suffer, Adam. I hope it's quick. I want a big whiff of it, and maybe I'll
just float away. I'm not afraid of death, Adam, but right now I'm afraid
of dying. I just wish it was over. This waiting is cruel."

"Are you ready?"

"My hard little heart is at peace. I've done some bad things, son, but I
feel like God might give me a break. I certainly don't deserve one."

"Why didn't you tell me about the man who was with you?"

"It's a long story. We don't have much time."

"It could've saved your life."

"No, nobody would've believed it. Think about it. Twenty-three
years later I suddenly change my story and blame it aU on a mystery man.
It would've been ridiculous."

"Why'd you lie to me?"

"I have reasons."

"To protect me?"

"That's one of them."

"He's still out there, isn't he?"

"Yes. He's close by. In fact, he's probably out front with aU the other
loonies right now. Just watching. You'd never see him, though."

"He killed Dogan and his wife?"

"Yes."

"And Dogan's son?"

"Yes."

"And Clovis Brazelton?"

"Probably. He's a very talented killer, Adam. He's deadly. He threat-
ened me and Dogan during the first trial."

"Does he have a name?"

"Not really. I wouldn't tell you anyway. You can never breathe a word
of this."

THE CHAMBER 473

"You're dying for someone else's crime."

"No. I could've saved those little boys. And God knows I've killed my
share of people. I deserve this, Adam."

"No one deserves this."

"It's far better than living. If they took me back to my cell right now
and told me I'd stay there until I died, you know what I'd do?"

"What?"

"I'd kill myself"

After spending the last hour in a cell, Adam couldn't argue with this.
He could not begin to comprehend the horror of living twenty-three
hours a day in a tiny cage.

"I forgot my cigarettes," Sam said, patting his shirt pocket. "I guess
this is a good time to quit."

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"Yeah."

"It's not working."

"Did Lee ever show you the book with my lynching picture in it?"

"She didn't show it to me. She told me where it was, and I found it."

"You saw the picture."

"Yes."

"A regular party, wasn't it?"

"Pretty sad."

"Did you see the other picture of the lynching, one page over?"

"Yes. Two Kluckers."

"With robes and hoods and masks."

"Yes, I saw it."

"That was me and Albert. I was hiding behind one of the masks."

Adam's senses were beyond the point of shock. The gruesome photo-
graph flashed through his mind, and he tried to purge it. "Why are you
telling me this, Sam?"

"Because it feels good. I've never admitted it before, and there's a
certain relief in facing the truth. I feel better already."

"I don't want to hear any more."

"Eddie never knew it. He found that book in the attic, and somehow
figured out I was in the other party photo. But he didn't know I was one
of the Kluckers."

"Let's not talk about Eddie, okay?"

"Good idea. What about Lee?"

"I'm mad at Lee. She skipped out on us."

"It would've been nice to see her, you know. That hurts. But I'm so
glad Carmen came."

Finally, a pleasant subject. "She's a fine person," Adam said.

474 JOHN GRISHAM

"A great kid. I'm very proud of you, Adam, and of Carmen. Y'all got
the good genes from your mother. I'm so lucky to have two wonderful
grandchildren."

Adam Hstened and didn't try to respond. Something banged next
door, and they both jumped.

"Nugent must be playing with his gadgets in there," Sam said, his
shoulders vibrating again. "You know what hurts?"

"What?"

"I've been thinking a lot about this, really flogging myself the last
couple of days. I look at you, and I look at Carmen, and I see two bright
young people with open minds and hearts. You don't hate anybody.
You're tolerant and broad-minded, well educated, ambitious, going
places without the baggage I was born with. And I look at you, my
grandson, my flesh and blood, and I ask myself. Why didn't I become
something else? Something like you and Carmen? It's hard to believe
we're actually related."

"Come on, Sam. Don't do this."

"I can't help it."

"Please, Sam."

"Okay, okay. Something pleasant." His voice trailed oflf and he leaned
over. His head was low and hanging almost between his legs.

Adam wanted an in-depth conversation about the mysterious accom-
pHce. He wanted to know it all — the real details of the bombing, the
disappearance, how and why Sam got caught. He also wanted to know
what might become of this guy, especially since he was out there, watch-
ing and waiting. But these questions w^ould not be answered, so he let
them pass. Sam w^ould take many secrets to his grave.

THE ARRIVAL of the governor's helicopter created a stir along the
firont entrance of Parchman. It landed on the other side of the highway
where another prison van waited. With a bodyguard on each elbow and
Mona Stark racing behind, McAllister scampered into the van. "It's the
governor!" someone yelled. The hymns and prayers stopped momen-
tarily. Cameras raced to film the van, which raced through the front gate
and disappeared.

Minutes later, it stopped near the ambulance behind MSU. The body-
guards and Ms. Stark remained in the van. Nugent met the governor and
escorted him into the witness room where he took a seat in the front
row. He nodded at the other w^itnesses, all sweating profusely by now.
The room ^vas an oven. Black mosquitoes bounced along the walls.
Nugent asked if there was anything he could fetch for the governor.

THE CHAMBER 475

"Popcorn," McAllister cracked, but no one laughed. Nugent frowned
and left the room.

"Why are you here?" a reporter asked immediately.

"No comment," McAllister said smugly.

The ten of them sat in silence, staring at the black drapes and anx-
iously checking their watches. The nervous chatter had ended. They
avoided eye contact, as if they were ashamed to be participants in such a
macabre event.

Nugent stopped at the door of the gas chamber and consulted a
checklist. It was eleven-forty. He told the doctor to enter the Isolation
Room, then he stepped outside and gave the signal for the guards to be
removed from the four towers around MSU. The odds of escaping gas
injuring a tower guard after the execution were minuscule, but Nugent
loved the details.

THE KNOCK on the door was faint indeed, but at the moment it
sounded as if a sledgehammer were being used. It cracked through the
silence, startHng both Adam and Sam. The door opened. The young
doctor stepped in, tried to smile, dropped to one knee, and asked Sam to
unbutton his shirt. A round stethoscope was stuck to his pale skin, with a
short wire left hanging to his belt.

The doctor's hands shook. He said nothing.

FIFTY-ONE

A T ELEVEN-THIRTY, Hez Kerry, Garner Goodman, John Bryan
AA Glass, and two of his students stopped their idle talk and held
-/. _A-hands around the cluttered table in Kerry's office. Each offered a
silent prayer for Sam Cayhall, then Hez voiced one for the group. They
sat in their seats, deep in thought, deep in silence, and said another short
one for Adam.

THE END CAME QUICKLY. The clock, sputtering and braking for
the last twenty-four hours, suddenly roared ahead.

For a few minutes after the doctor left, they shared a light, nervous
chatter as Sam walked twice across the small room, measuring it, then
leaned on the wall opposite the bed. They talked about Chicago, and
Kravitz & Bane, and Sam couldn't imagine how three hundred lawyers
existed in the same building. There was a jittery laugh or two, and a few
tense smiles as they waited for the next dreaded knock.

It came at precisely eleven fifty-five. Three sharp raps, then a long
pause. Nugent waited before barging in.

Adam immediately jumped to his feet. Sam took a deep breath, and
clenched his jaws. He pointed a finger at Adam. "Listen to me," he said
firmly. "You can walk in there with me, but you cannot stay."

"I know. I don't want to stay, Sam."

"Good." The crooked finger dropped, the jaws slackened, the face
sank. Sam reached forward and took Adam by the shoulders. Adam
pulled him close and hugged him gently.

"Tell Lee I love her," Sam said, his voice breaking. He pulled away

THE CHAMBER 477

slightly and looked Adam in the eyes. "TeU her I thought about her to
the very end. And I'm not mad at her for not coming. I wouldn't want
to come here either if I didn't have to."

Adam's head nodded quickly, and he struggled not to cry. Anything,
Sam, anything.

"Say hello to your mom. I always liked her. Give my love to Carmen,
she's a great kid. I'm sorry about all this, Adam. It's a terrible legacy for
you guys to carry."

"We'll do fme, Sam."

"I know you will. I'll die a very proud man, son, because of you."

"I'll miss you," Adam said, the tears now running down his cheeks.

The door opened and the colonel stepped in. "It's time now, Sam,"
he said sadly.

Sam faced him with a brave smile. "Let's do it!" he said strongly.
Nugent went first, then Sam, then Adam. They stepped into the Cham-
ber Room, which was packed with people. Everyone stared at Sam, then
immediately looked away. They were ashamed, thought Adam.
Ashamed to be here taking part in this nasty little deed. They wouldn't
look at Adam.

Monday, the executioner, and his assistant were along the wall next to
the chemical room. Two uniformed guards were crowded next to them.
Lucas Mann and a deputy warden were near the door. The doctor was
busy to the immediate right, adjusting his EKG and trying to appear
calm.

And in the center of the room, now surrounded by the various par-
ticipants, was the chamber, an octagonal-shaped tube with a gleaming
fresh coat of silver paint. Its door was open, the fateful wooden chair just
waiting, a row of covered windows behind it.

The door to the outside of the room was open, but there was no draft.
The room was like a sauna, everyone was drenched with sweat. The two
guards took Sam and led him into the chamber. He counted the steps —
only five of them from the door to the chamber — and suddenly he was
inside, sitting, looking around the men to find Adam. The men's hands
moved rapidly.

Adam had stopped just inside the door. He leaned on the wall for
strength, his knees spongy and weak. He stared at the people in the
room, at the chamber, at the floor, the EKG. It was all so sanitary! The
freshly painted walls. The sparkling concrete floors. The doctor with his
machines. The clean, sterile litde chamber with its glowing luster. The
antiseptic smell from the chemical room. Everything so spotless and
hygienic. It should've been a clinic where people went to get themselves
healed.

478 JOHN GRISHAM

What if I vomit on the floor, right here at the feet of the good doctor,
what would that do for your disinfected Httle room, Nugent? How
would the manual treat that, Nugent, if I just lost it right here in front of
the chamber? Adam clutched his stomach.

Straps on Sam's arms, two of them for each, then two more for the
legs, over the shiny new Dickies, then the hideous head brace so he
wouldn't hurt himself when the gas hit. There now, all buckled down,
and ready for the vapors. All neat and tidy, spotless and germ-free, no
blood to be shed. Nothing to pollute this flawless, moral killing.

The guards backed out of the narrow door, proud of their work.

Adam looked at him sitting in there. Their eyes met, and for an instant
Sam closed his.

The doctor was next. Nugent said something to him, but Adam
couldn't hear the words. He stepped inside and rigged the wire running
from the stethoscope. He was quick with his work.

Lucas Mann stepped forward with a sheet of paper. He stood in the
door of the chamber. "Sam, this is the death warrant. I'm required by
law to read it to you."

"Just hurry," Sam grunted without opening his Ups.

Lucas lifted the piece of paper, and read from it: "Pursuant to a verdict
of guilty and a sentence of death returned against you by the Circuit
Court of Washington County on February 14, 1981, you are hereby
condemned to die by lethal gas in the gas chamber at the Mississippi
State Penitentiary at Parchman. May God have mercy on your soul."
Lucas backed away, then reached for the first of two phones mounted on
the wall. He called his office to see if there were any miraculous last
minute delays. There were none. The second phone was a secured line
to the Attorney General's office in Jackson. Again, all systems were go. It
was now thirty seconds after midnight, Wednesday, August 8. "No
stays," he said to Nugent.

The words bounced around the humid room and crashed in firom aU
directions. Adam glanced at his grandfather for the last time. His hands
were clenched. His eyes were closed tightly, as if he couldn't look at
Adam again. His lips were moving, as if he had just one more quick
prayer.

"Any reason why this execution should not proceed?" Nugent asked
formally, suddenly craving solid legal advice.

"None," Lucas said with genuine regret.

Nugent stood in the door of the chamber. "Any last words, Sam?" he
asked.

"Not for you. It's time for Adam to leave."

"Very well." Nugent slowly closed the door, its thick rubber gasket

THE CHAMBER 479

preventing noise. Silently, Sam was now locked up, and buckled down.
He closed his eyes tightly. Just please hurry.

Adam eased behind Nugent, who was still facing the chamber door.
Lucas Mann opened the door to the outside, and both men made a
quick exit. Adam glanced back at the room for the last time. The execu-
tioner was reaching for a lever. His assistant was inching to the side to
catch a glimpse. The two guards were jockeying for position so they
could watch the old bastard die. Nugent and the deputy warden and the
doctor were crowded along the other waU, all inching closer, heads
bobbing up and over, each fearful he might miss something.

The ninety-degree heat outside seemed much cooler. Adam walked
to the end of the ambulance and leaned on it for a second.

"Are you all right?" Lucas asked.

"No."

"Just take it easy."

"You're not gonna witness it?"

"No. I've seen four. That's enough for me. This one's especially
diflficult."

Adam stared at the white door in the center of the brick wall. Three
vans were parked nearby. A group of guards smoked and whispered by
the vans. "I'd like to leave," he said, afraid that he was about to be sick.

"Let's go." Lucas grabbed his elbow and led him to the first van. He
said something to a guard, who jumped into the front seat. Adam and
Lucas sat on a bench in the center of it.

Adam knew at that precise moment his grandfather was in the cham-
ber gasping for breath, his lungs seared with burning poison. Just over
there, in that Httle red-brick building, right now, he's sucking it in,
trying to swallow as much as possible, hoping to simply float away to a
better world.

He began to cry. The van moved around the recreation yards and
through the grass in front of the Row. He covered his eyes, and cried for
Sam, for his suffering at this moment, for the despicable way he was
being forced to die. He looked so pitiful sitting there in his new clothes
being tied down hke an animal. He cried for Sam and the last nine and a
half years he'd spent staring through bars, trying to catch a ghmpse of the
moon, wondering if anyone out there cared about him. He cried for the
whole wretched Cayhall family and their miserable history. And he cried
for himself, for his anguish at this moment, for the loss of a loved one,
for his failure to stop this madness.

Lucas patted him gently on the shoulder and the van roUed and
stopped, then rolled and stopped again. "I'm sorry," he said more than
once.

480 JOHN GRISHAM

"This your car?" Lucas asked, as they stopped outside the gate. The
dirt parking lot was filled to capacity. Adam yanked the door handle and
stepped out without a word. He could say thanks later.

He sped along the gravel trail, between the rows of cotton, until he
came to the main drive. He drove quickly to the front entrance, slowing
only briefly as he weaved around two barricades, then stopped at the
front gate so a guard could check his trunk. To his left Avas the swarm of
reporters. They were on their feet, waiting anxiously for word from the
Row. Mini-cams were ready.

There was no one in his trunk, and he was waved around another
barricade, almost hitting a guard who wasn't moving fast enough. He
stopped at the highway, and paused to look at the candleHght vigil under
way to his right. Hundreds of candles. And a hymn in progress some-
w^here dow^n the way.

He sped away, past state troopers loitering about, enjoying the break
in the action. He sped past cars parked on the shoulders for two miles,
and soon Parchman was behind him. He pushed the turbo, and was soon
doing ninety.

He headed north for some reason, though he had no intention of
going to Memphis. Towns Hke Tutwiler, Lambert, Marks, Sledge, and
Crenshaw^ flew by. He rolled the windows down and the warm air
swirled around the seats. The windshield was peppered with large bugs
and insects, the plague of the Delta, he'd learned.

He just drove, with no particular destination. This trip had not been
planned. He'd given no thought to where he would go immediately
after Sam died, because he never truly beHeved it would happen. Maybe
he'd be in Jackson now, drinking and celebrating with Garner Goodman
and Hez Kerry, getting plastered because they'd pulled a rabbit out of
the hat. Maybe he'd be at the Row, still on the phone trying desperately
to get the details of a last minute stay which would later become perma-
nent. Maybe a lot of things.

He wouldn't dare go to Lee's, because she might actually be there.
Their next meeting would be a nasty one, and he preferred to postpone
it. He decided to fmd a decent motel. Spend the night. Try and sleep.
Figure things out tomorrow after the sun was up. He raced through
dozens of hamlets and towns, none with a room for rent. He slowed
considerably. One highway led to another. He was lost but didn't care.
How can you be lost when you don't know where you're going? He
recognized towns on road signs, turned this way then that way. An aU-
night convenience store caught his attention on the outskirts of Her-
nando, not far from Memphis. There were no cars parked in front. A
middle-aged lady with jet-black hair was behind the counter, smoking.

THE CHAMBER 481

smacking gum, and talking on the phone. Adam went to the beer cooler
and grabbed a six-pack.

"Sorry, hon, can't buy beer after twelve."

"What?" Adam demanded, reaching into his pocket.

She didn't like his snarl. She carefully laid the phone next to the cash
register. "We can't sell beer here after midnight. It's the law."

"The law?"

"Yes. The law."

''Of the State of Mississippi?"

"That's correct," she said smartly.

"Do you know what I think of the laws of this state right now?"

"No, dear. And I honestly don't care."

Adam flipped a ten-dollar bill on the counter and carried the beer to
his car. She watched him leave, then stuck the cash in her pocket and
went back to the phone. Why bother the cops over a six-pack of beer?

He was off again, going south on a two-lane highway, obeying the
speed limit and gulping the first beer. Off again in pursuit of a clean
room with a free continental breakfast, pool, cable, HBO, kids stay free.

Fifteen minutes to die, fifteen minutes to vent the chamber, ten min-
utes to wash it down with ammonia. Spray the lifeless body, deader than
hell, according to the young doctor and his EKG. Nugent pointing here
and there — get the gas masks, get the gloves, get those damned reporters
back on the vans and out of here.

Adam could see Sam in there, head fallen to one side, still strapped
under those enormous leather buckles. What color was his skin now?
Surely not the pale whiteness of the past nine and a half years. Surely the
gas turned his Hps purple and his flesh pink. The chamber is now clear,
all is safe. Enter the chamber, Nugent says, unbuckle him. Take the
knives. Cut off the clothing. Did his bowels loosen? Did his bladder leak?
They always do. Be careful. Here, here's the plastic bag. Put the clothes
in here. Spray the naked body.

Adam could see the new clothes — the stiff khakis, the oversized shoes,
the spotless white socks. Sam had been so proud to wear real clothes
again. Now they were rags in a green garbage sack, handled like venom
and soon to be burned by a trustee.

Where are the clothes, the blue prison pants and white tee shirt? Get
them. Enter the chamber. Dress the corpse. No shoes are necessary. No
socks. Hell, he's just going to the funeral home. Let the family worry
about dressing him for a decent burial. Now the stretcher. Get him out
of there. Into the ambulance.

Adam was near a lake somewhere, over a bridge, through a bottom,
the air suddenly damp and cool. Lost again.

FIFTY-TWO

THE FIRST GLINT of sunrise was a pink halo over a hiU above
Clanton. It strained through the trees, and was soon turning to
yellow, then to orange. There were no clouds, nothing but bril-
liant colors against the dark sky.

There were t"wo unopened beers sitting in the grass. Three empty cans
had been tossed against a nearby headstone. The first empty can was still
in the car.

The da'wn was breaking. Shadows feU toward him from the rows of
other gravestones. The sun itself was soon peeking at him from behind
the trees.

He'd been there for a couple of hours, though he'd lost track of time.
Jackson and Judge Slattery and Monday's hearing were years ago. Sam
had died minutes ago. Or ^vas he dead? Had they already done their
dirty act? Time was stiU playing games.

He hadn't found a motel, not that he'd looked very hard. He'd found
himself near Clanton, then \vas drawn here where he'd located the head-
stone of Anna Gates Cayhall. Now he rested against it. He'd drunk the
warm beer and thrown the cans at the largest monument within range. If
the cops found him here and took him to jail, he wouldn't care. He'd
been in a cell before. "Yeah, just got out of Parchman," he'd teU his ceU
mates, his rap partners. "Just w^alked out of death row." And they'd leave
him alone.

Evidently, the cops were occupied elsewhere. The graveyard was se-
cure. Four Uttle red flags had been staked out next to his grandmother's

THE CHAMBER 483

plot. Adam noticed them as the sun rose to the east. Another grave to be
dug.

A car door closed somewhere behind him, but he didn't hear it. A
figure walked toward him, but he didn't know it. It moved slowly,
searching the cemetery, cautiously looking for something.

The snapping of a twig startled Adam. Lee was standing beside him,
her hand on her mother's headstone. He looked at her, then looked
away.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, too numb to be surprised.

She gently lowered herself first to her knees, then she sat very close to
him, her back pressed to her mother's engraved name. She wrapped her
arm around his elbow.

"Where the hell have you been, Lee?"

"In treatment."

"You could've called, dammit."

"Don't be angry, Adam, please. 1 need a friend." She leaned her head
on his shoulder.

"I'm not sure I'm your friend, Lee. What you did was terrible."

"He wanted to see me, didn't he?"

"He did. You, of course, were lost in your own little world, self-
absorbed as usual. No thought given to others."

"Please, Adam, I've been in treatment. You know how weak I am. I
need help."

"Then get it."

She noticed the two cans of beer, and Adam quickly tossed them
away. "I'm not drinking," she said, pitifully. Her voice was sad and
hollow. Her pretty face was tired and wrinkled.

"I tried to see him," she said.

"When?"

"Last night. I drove to Parchman. They wouldn't let me in. Said it was
too late."

Adam lowered his head and softened considerably. He would accom-
phsh nothing by cursing her. She was an alcoholic, struggling to over-
come demons he hoped he would never meet. And she was his aunt, his
beloved Lee. "He asked about you at the very end. He asked me to tell
you he loved you, and that he wasn't angry because you didn't come see
him."

She started crying very quietly. She wiped her cheeks with the backs
of her hands, and cried for a long time.

"He went out with a great deal of courage and dignity," Adam said.
"He was very brave. He said his heart was right with God, and that he

484 JOHN GRISHAM

hated no one. He was terribly remorseful for the things he'd done. He
was a champ, Lee, an old fighter who was ready to move on."

"You know where I've been?" she asked between sniffles, as if she'd
heard nothing he said.

"No. Where?"

"I've been to the old home place. I drove there from Parchman last
night."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to burn it. And it burned beautifully. The house
and the weeds around it. One huge fire. AH up in smoke."

"Come on, Lee."

"It's true. I almost got caught, I think. I might' ve passed a car on the
way out. I'm not worried, though. I bought the place last week. Paid
thirteen thousand dollars to the bank. If you own it, then you can burn
it, right? You're the lawyer."

"Are you serious?"

"Go look for yourself. I parked in front of a church a mile away to
w^ait for the fire trucks. They never came. The nearest house is two miles
away. No one saw the fire. Drive out and take a look. There's nothing
left but the chimney and a pile of ashes."

"How — "

"Gasoline. Here, smell my hands." She shoved them under his nose.
They bore the acrid, undeniable smell of gasoUne.

"But why?"

"I should' ve done it years ago."

"That doesn't answer the question. Why?"

"Evil things happened there. It was filled with demons and spirits.
Now they're gone."

"So they died with Sam?"

"No, they're not dead. They've gone off to haunt someone else."

It would be pointless to pursue this discussion, Adam decided quickly.
They should leave, maybe return to Memphis "where he could get her
back into recovery. And maybe therapy. He would stay w^ith her and
make sure she got help.

A dirty pickup truck entered the cemetery through the iron gates of
the old section, and puttered slowly along the concrete path through the
ancient monuments. It stopped at a small utiUty shed in a corner of the
lot. Three black men slowly scooted out and stretched their backs.

"That's Herman," she said.

"Who?"

"Herman. Don't know his last name. He's been digging graves here
for forty years."

THE CHAMBER 485

They watched Herman and the other two across the valley of tomb-
stones. They could barely hear their voices as the men deliberately went
about their preparations.

Lee stopped the sniffling and crying. The sun was well above the
treeline, its rays hitting directly in their faces. It was already warm. "I'm
glad you came," she said. "I know it meant a lot to him."

"I lost, Lee. I failed my client, and now he's dead."

"You tried your best. No one could save him."

"Maybe."

"Don't punish yourself Your first night in Memphis, you told me it
was a long shot. You came close. You put up a good fight. Now it's time
to go back to Chicago and get on with the rest of your life."

"I'm not going back to Chicago."

"What?"

"I'm changing jobs."

"But you've only been a lawyer for a year."

"I'll still be a lawyer. Just a different kind of practice."

"Doing what?"

"Death penalty litigation."

"That sounds dreadful."

"Yes, it does. Especially at this moment in my Hfe. But I'll grow into
it. I'm not cut out for the big firms."

"Where will you practice?"

"Jackson. I'll be spending more time at Parchman."

She rubbed her face and pulled back her hair. "I guess you know what
you're doing," she said, unable to hide the doubt.

"Don't bet on it."

Herman was walking around a battered yellow backhoe parked under
a shade tree next to the shed. He studied it thoughtfully while another
man placed two shovels in its bucket. They stretched again, laughed
about something, and kicked the front tires.

"I have an idea," she said. "There's a little cafe north of town. It's
called Ralph's. Sam took me — "

"Ralph's?"

"Yeah."

"Sam's minister was named Ralph. He was with us last night."

"Sam had a minister?"

"Yes. A good one."

"Anyway, Sam would take me and Eddie there on our birthdays.
Place has been here for a hundred years. We'd eat these huge biscuits and
drink hot cocoa. Let's go see if it's open."

"Now?"

486 JOHN GRISHAM

"Yeah." She was excited and getting to her feet. "Come on. I'm
hungry."

Adam grabbed the headstone and pulled himself up. He hadn't slept
since Monday night, and his legs were heavy and stiff. The beer made
him dizzy.

In the distance, an engine started. It echoed unmuffled through the
cemetery. Adam froze. Lee turned to see it. Herman was operating the
backhoe, blue smoke boihng from the exhaust. His two co-workers were
in the front bucket with their feet hanging out. The backhoe lunged in
low gear, then started along the drive, very slowly past the rows of
graves. It stopped and turned.

It was coming their way.

(continued from front flap)

on a pro bono basis for years. But the
case is all but lost and time is running
out: within weeks Sam Cayhall will finally
go to the gas chamber. Why in the world
would Adam want to get involved?

Since the publication of The Firm in 1991 ,
John Grisham has become one of our
most popular authors. His four previous
novels have all been number one best-
sellers, and three have been made into
films. In The Chamber he hcis returned to
the spiritual landscape of his first novel, A
Time to Kill, to craft a story that is at once
a gripping thriller and an exploration of
how one family comes to terms with
their dark and complex past.

JACKIT PHOTOGRAPH BY WESTLIChfT © M. ANGELO
lACKET DESIGN BY WHITNEY COOKMAN

\ Printed In the U.S.A.

\ 0694

M.

John Grisham is the author of A Time to Kill, The Firm, The Pelican
Brief, and The Client. He lives in Oxford, Mississippi.

ISBN 0-385-42472-8

780385"424721

52495